


(the creatures that) you have to fight

by wildforce71



Series: Powers 'Verse [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: AU, At least read the very first one, Canon Romance, Except the bits that are, Gen, I added bits thanks to a review, I just had to pick a warning, I'll let you know when we get there, I'm not even kidding, Pouring our hearts out in tags no one reads, Season Rewrite, So I went with that one, Sometimes I wonder does anyone read these, There's Probably a Song in That Somewhere, This is probably not the fic to start this series with, This season was so hard, You'd probably guess anyway, also there's a guest writer for one bit, canon violence, it's more about the background bits, it's not so much about the canon stuff this year, me and fandomlver, not very violent violence, probably not, so always ask about things you want to see, you might get added bits too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5888230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildforce71/pseuds/wildforce71
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Richelieu's death, the Musketeers should have been safe. But new enemies and new perils rise up to test them, and the stakes are higher than ever before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Keep your Enemies Close

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Season Two, y'all. I'm sorry it took so long to get here.
> 
> Because there's no interludes in this one, it's a bit shorter than the first one.

d'Artagnan quietly volunteered himself for the first watch on the way back to Paris. Athos had deigned to untie Comte de Rochefort, but Porthos was sitting very close to him, grinning, and the flow of complaints had more or less stopped.

Athos excused himself after a short time and came to join d'Artagnan on the edge of the clearing. "What do you make of our new..." He had to stop and think before coming up with "...companion?"

"I don't make anything of him. I can't get any kind of read on him."

"Nothing?"

"If I try, it's like I slide off his mind. If I don't try, there’s – an emptiness, a nothing. It's – unnerving."

"Is it something he's doing deliberately? An Ability?"

"I can't tell. Some people just can't be read. A fluke of the mind. If it's something he's doing, I'll get through eventually. No shield lasts forever."

"Be careful. If he is doing it on purpose, he may be able to tell what you're doing."

"I will," d'Artagnan agreed. He glanced sideways at Athos. "You don't like him."

"Our paths never crossed much even before he fell to the Spanish. His lands are far from mine, and he was the Cardinal's stooge for some years before his capture."

"And you don't like him."

"And I don't like him," Athos admitted with a sigh. "He has never seemed – honest. Far more than the usual Court deception."

“Maybe we won’t have to have much to do with him.”

Athos glanced at him. “When do our lives ever go that well?”

d'Artagnan snorted softly. “Get some rest. I’ll wake you in a while.”

“Keep an eye out,” Athos warned him, and d'Artagnan nodded.

It was odd, having Rochefort there. d'Artagnan could sense the others, as always, steadfast Porthos, quicksilver Aramis and private, self contained Athos. But Rochefort was either nothing at all, or an odd sliding, _wrong_ sensation. The only thing he could compare it to was trying to look at Porthos when he’d Faded; his eyes always wandered away, no matter how careful he was, no matter how certain he was that Porthos was _right there._

Rochefort stood after a while, walking around the campsite. d'Artagnan kept an eye on him but didn’t try to stop him. There wasn’t anywhere for him to go, and if d'Artagnan shouted the others would wake immediately.

Rochefort wandered up to stand beside him, studying the landscape. “You’re a new Musketeer, are you, d'Artagnan?”

“Nearly a year commissioned, nearly another before that apprentice. Quite new.”

“And you enjoy it?”

“Far more than I would have enjoyed farming. You never thought of serving?”

“I was busy running my lands.” He studied the landscape for a moment. “They’ve probably been absorbed by the Crown now.”

“No one else to inherit?”

Rochefort stared at nothing for a minute. “I missed France,” he said finally. “Spain smells different.”

“I’ve never been,” d'Artagnan said politely.

“I hope you never will. Terrible country.”

d'Artagnan smiled awkwardly. “I’ll remember. I need to walk the perimeter. You should sit back down, just in case Porthos wakes and gets the wrong idea.”

Rochefort scowled. d'Artagnan moved off, glancing at Porthos as he passed him. The other man was awake, and d'Artagnan was only a half dozen steps further on before he heard Porthos demanding to know what Rochefort thought he was doing.

He completed the circuit on autopilot; he didn’t need to be looking to be reasonably sure they were alone, although he was more paranoid now than he would have been otherwise. But the night was quiet and still enough that he’d have heard anyone coming long before they were close enough to attack.

He woke Athos when he got back to camp, reported quietly on the lack of movement, and added, “Rochefort spoke to me.”

“About what?”

“About nothing, really. I got the feeling he was probing, trying to find something.”

“Do you think he found it?”

“Hard to say. I don’t know what he was looking for.” d'Artagnan leaned against a tree, thinking. “He wears a rosary,” he said thoughtfully. “If I could get my hands on that…”

“We don’t need to know that badly,” Athos said firmly. “Certainly not yet. We’ve no proof he’s done anything other than escape the Spanish.”

“Proof,” d'Artagnan muttered. “So inconvenient.”

Athos smiled. “Isn’t it, though. Go and get some sleep. We’ll make Paris tomorrow, and hopefully we’ll find out what he wants then.”

d'Artagnan nodded, heading to the empty bedroll and settling in, letting the sense of his brothers block out the unnerving empty space on the other side of the fire.

 

“You forget yourself, sir! Bow to your future king!”

Aramis desperately wanted to get a hand on the child – he _looked_ healthy, but appearances could be deceptive – but it wasn’t possible. He had to settle for smiling at him from a distance.

“Thank you, mademoiselle…”

“Marguerite.”

“You’re the Dauphin’s governess?” An utterly ridiculous title, since the boy was barely two days old. She’d be a glorified nanny for the next four years. “A distinguished position.”

“Her majesty does me great honour,” Marguerite agreed.

“I’m certain you will perform most admirably.” He couldn’t get at her hands, so he bowed, smiling. “I hope to see you again soon, mademoiselle.”

She watched him as he walked away.

Athos was waiting for him, and d'Artagnan joined them a moment later. “Who is that?” he asked, glancing back into the hallway.”

“Lady Marguerite, governess to the Dauphin,” Athos told him.

“Ooooh…be careful there, Aramis.”

“Careful,” he repeated, following Athos out into the grounds.

“I nearly fell in love with you myself just walking past her.”

“Only nearly?”

“Well, I’ve heard you snore.”

“I never snore in the presence of a lady.”

d'Artagnan snapped his fingers. “ _That’s_ where I’ve been going wrong!”

“Entertaining as this is,” Athos said mildly, “Porthos is waiting for us.”

“Does Porthos snore in the presence of a lady?” d'Artagnan wondered.

“Porthos snores in the presence of everyone. It’s one of his many charms.”

“Charms?”

“One of the lesser ones,” Aramis allowed, smiling as they reach Porthos, waiting patiently with their horses.

d'Artagnan smiled, swinging up onto his horse. “I’ll try to remember that next time it keeps me awake.”

Aramis glanced back towards the palace, just once, and then followed Athos back towards the garrison.

 

d'Artagnan would have let Lucie kiss him if he’d thought she really wanted it. Watching her brother slowly fade was weighing heavily on her, and he didn’t want to take advantage of that.

Constance was standing in the gateway when he turned away from Lucie.

“The Queen sent me to inquire after General de Foix’s health,” Constance said, voice a little high pitched.

“He’s weaker.” Constance nodded, turning away, and d'Artagnan hurried down the steps after her. “Constance…”

“We’ve said it all already, d'Artagnan,” she said tiredly. “I can’t leave him. And we can’t – do what we were doing.” He reached for her hands, holding them lightly. “d'Artagnan, I’m the Queen’s companion now,” she reminded him. “I have to be above question.”

She wanted him; she was trying her hardest to stand firm against it.

“What did your husband think?” he asked.

“Not much of it.” She tugged against his hold, freeing herself and taking a step back. “What is the general’s prognosis?”

“Not good. The wound’s infected and the journey drained him too much.” Again he silently cursed Rochefort. The man had seen the injury before Aramis could get to it, knew what he was looking at, and had kept checking back. Aramis couldn’t do anything to help, though he’d kept the pain down as much as he could.

“I will tell the Queen. Thank you.” She nodded awkwardly, turning to leave.

“Goodbye,” he murmured.

Her steps faltered, but she didn’t stop.


	2. An Ordinary Man, pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter written by my beautiful co writer, SailorSol, who, when I couldn't quite figure out how to do this chapter, said "Why not do it like this?" and then basically wrote the whole thing. <3

D’Artagnan _should_ have realized something was wrong when the barkeep started leading him and Louis out the back of the tavern, but in the moment he had been too busy focusing on getting the king out of the immediate danger of the bar brawl. If it had just been him and the other Inseparables, the fight wouldn’t have blindsided him that way, but they had all been on their best behavior, trying to keep the king out of trouble.

And d’Artagnan, idiot that he was, had led them straight into a trap.

He sent a silent prayer of thanks to Flora, otherwise in this moment he would have had to choose between closing himself off completely and risking unexpected danger to the king, or leaving himself completely exposed to the roiling emotions of the other men chained to them and the dark thoughts of the slavers.

Still, he would need to be careful. Louis was angrier than he was scared, which would make d’Artagnan’s job of keeping him alive and safe and hopefully anonymous a lot more difficult. The others would be on their trail soon enough, which didn’t mean d’Artagnan wouldn’t try to escape if an opportunity presented itself. 

By the time they stopped for the day, d’Artagnan wanted nothing more than to find someplace quiet and isolated to curl up. Carrying Pepin had been a mistake; the man was in pain, exhausted, and terrified for himself and his family. It had been near impossible to block while carrying him.

“Are you going to eat?”

The voice—too loud, too close—made d’Artagnan flinch before he could school his features back to neutrality. The king was eyeing the crust of bread d’Artagnan had yet to touch. Just the thought of food made him feel nauseous, even if he knew he needed the energy. But he didn’t want to eat, didn’t want to deal with the rough texture no matter how bland the flavor. He handed the crust to Louis, who took it greedily.

“You should rest,” d’Artagnan told the king. “While we have the chance.” Night would be better for an escape; harder to be seen moving through the woods, and the sun would not be glaring in his eyes anymore. 

“I still think—”

“No,” d’Artagnan cut him off, sharp and firm. Louis’ eyes widened, but d’Artagnan couldn’t care about that right now, couldn’t allow himself to think of anything other than the king’s safety, niceties be damned. “The others will find us. Until then, it is best the slavers don’t know your true identity.”

Louis sulked, but at least he kept his mouth shut, even when Pepin badmouthed the king. When Lemaitre realized Louis was a noble—not the king, thank God, no one had yet recognized him—and pulled the gun, d’Artagnan’s world narrowed down even more as he moved without hesitation, placing himself between the gun and his king.

 _Focus_ , he had to remind himself. Lemaitre’s emotions were all over the place, which wasn’t helping. He was annoyed that d’Artagnan was getting in his way, reluctant to kill a man who would fetch him a good price, concerned that people would come looking for them, and d’Artagnan didn’t _think_ he would kill them both, but he couldn’t take that chance, couldn’t let Lemaitre think d’Artagnan would step aside willingly.

 _Over my dead body_ was more than just a phrase right now. If Lemaitre wanted Louis dead, he would have to go through d’Artagnan first, and d’Artagnan wouldn’t make that easy.

Louis’ fear made his stomach twist; fear for his own life, fear for d’Artagnan’s, fear for Anne and the baby at home, whose life would be at constant risk if his father didn’t come home. Without the other Musketeers nearby, without anything to build his own shields on other than himself, d’Artagnan drew into himself as far as he dared.

He’d gone too far. He didn’t even register Milady’s presence until she was nearly upon them, and the only reason his knees didn’t buckle at her addition was due to her own Ability. All of her focus was on Lemaitre, plying him to believe her, to stand down and leave d’Artagnan and the king alive. She knew who they were, knew who he was, and she was helping them. Helping them to help herself, he was sure, but he didn’t dare reach out to sense her feelings; she would batter his shields down with hardly a thought.

They needed to escape. He couldn’t wait any longer for the others to arrive.

***

The grief nearly knocked d’Artagnan off his feet.

Pepin, who had thought so poorly of the king only a few hours ago, who had declared his willingness to fight and die by Louis’ side, who had a wife and little girl waiting for him at home; he was dying, d’Artagnan didn’t need to feel that to know it for truth. He could block Pepin out, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—block Louis.

Not as bad as the grief of learning of Richelieu’s death had been, but for a commoner that the king had only known for a few short hours, it cut through d’Artagnan like a knife.

 _Focus,_ he snarled at himself, grabbing Louis by the sleeve to drag him away from the fire fight. Grief, anger, fear, none of those mattered, not right now, not when there was still danger in every direction and d’Artagnan was unarmed and emotion meant nothing if he didn’t keep the king alive.

At least this time he was prepared for Milady’s approach, senses flung as wide as possible as he searched for safe passage. He couldn’t trust her, but he couldn’t afford not to trust her, not right now, and she wasn’t sending off any false emotions right now. Just worry and determination and that peculiar sense of…

_Focus!_

“Stay here,” he told them, clambering up the rocks to see if they were being followed, but he hadn’t made it far before fear spiked in Louis again, but when he stumbled back down, he was met with the sight of Athos, Aramis, and Porthos, and he could have cried except he’d left his own feelings somewhere back in Paris.

***

Louis was looking to d’Artagnan as Lemaitre—the other one, the brother, d’Artagnan hadn’t managed to catch his name—answered the question about fighting. The king wanted to know if he was being truthful, and there wasn’t any time to take risks. Louis would ignore d’Artagnan’s Ability just as he had ignored Aramis’ only a few minutes before. The man was terrified, but determined; d’Artagnan nodded to the king. _Trust him._ Not that they had much choice.

Good enough for the king, good enough for the others, d’Artagnan took a spare musket from Aramis as Porthos led the king away from the fight. Six men, maybe seven, plus the one on horseback—the barkeep who had led them into the trap in the first place, d’Artagnan was taking the shot if he had it, questioning the man be damned. And Athos didn’t protest when d’Artagnan had his chance, let d’Artagnan take his scarf to wrap around his hand ( _focus focus focus!_ ), let the barkeep charge him (should have tried to run him down with the horse, but the man was an idiot, d’Artagnan wasn’t complaining). He was unseated, flipped to the ground, and with one quick strike, the man’s own sword went straight through his chest.

He hadn’t been blocking, not enough, hadn’t had time or energy to put anything up, but this man’s death didn’t pull him down. All d’Artagnan felt was satisfaction, bright and sharp and he didn’t _care_ , didn’t blink as this man died at his hand.

Not done yet. They weren't done until the king was safely back in the palace, when he was there for the dauphin's christening, and then d’Artagnan could stop. Stop feeling, stop thinking, stop trying to walk the tight rope he'd been on since the fight in the bar.

When had that been? Yesterday? The day before? He wasn't sure anymore. Time had stopped making sense about the time Milady turned up.

Milady, oh God, he had left the king alone with her, he should have known better, and he couldn’t say anything, not after she had, admittedly, saved them. And Athos...Athos was a void, a blank wall that was equal parts terrifying and an utter relief.

Aramis neared him; d’Artagnan shied away without meaning to, but he wasn't hurt badly enough to justify Aramis' help, not when it would bother Aramis that he couldn't do more.

They had to get back to Paris. Athos was looking at him, unreadable; had he said something to d’Artagnan? He stretched, reaching out into the forest as far as he could; one man still clinging to life, the others dead or gone. "Safe," he said, hoping that was what Athos had asked.

Must have been close enough, because he was gestured towards a waiting horse. This was going to be a fast ride, and d’Artagnan needed to focus, damn it, why did everything except the ringing sound like his ears were stuffed with cotton or he'd been too close to yet another explosion.

Porthos and the king weren’t far ahead. D’Artagnan pointed Athos in the right direction and soon the party of seven was winding its way through trees and brush.

He was exhausted. He couldn't afford to slip, not now, not when they were so close to being safe. Focus on the king, focus on threats lying in wait, _focus._

***

Leather reins in his hands, the motion of the horse under him, graceful and warm. Too bright sunlight, doublet rough against already raw wrists, hand throbbing in time with his heart. The sounds of the horses faded in and out, one moment too loud and the next nearly nonexistent. He’d stopped trying to make his eyes focus, trusting the horse to follow its comrades. 

Through the streets of Paris now, people everywhere, screaming inside his head, and he tried, he _tried_ , damn it, centered as much attention as he dared on the smooth blankness of Athos, Porthos’ steady determination, Aramis’ watchful caution.

Palace hallways, people skittering out of their way. Athos was demanding something, but d’Artagnan didn’t have the energy to listen. He wasn’t mad; relieved, more than anything, and that’s when d’Artagnan realized Milady was gone, it was just the four of them with the king, in a mad dash to get Louis cleaned up and to the chapel.

The chapel filled with people and the queen’s _fearhurtangerrelief,_ a blast of pride from Louis and jealousy from Aramis and Rochefort…disappointed? Relieved? Hard to tell, not with so many people in the room and d’Artagnan’s shields in a tattered mess. Just a little while longer, the ceremony was nearly done, and of course Louis would want an audience now, impatient as always, so d’Artagnan locked his knees and ignored Constance and forced himself to pay attention to the king.

The king who was again—still—angry and afraid, but he had _promised_ Bruno, Bruno had trusted him. D’Artagnan had trusted him, and he had already killed one man with no regret today, knew he could not kill this one without losing himself. The twin flares of anger from Aramis and Porthos didn’t help; neither did Treville and Athos shoving everything down and away, leaving d’Artagnan to make this decision himself.

He would die for Louis. He had been ready to die, stood between him and a gun only a short time before. But so had Bruno, and d’Artagnan couldn’t tell where his own fear and betrayal ended and Bruno’s began and there was only one choice he could make and bracing himself would do no good against Louis’ own feeling of betrayal, of hurt and anger and something else d’Artagnan couldn’t identify right now, something vile and rotten.

Athos’ hand on his elbow was the only thing that kept d’Artagnan on his feet when Rochefort killed Bruno.

***

“We don’t have to do this now.”

D’Artagnan blinked, repeated Athos’ words in his head three times before they made sense as a coherent sentence, and managed a headshake. “Better to get it over with now.”

“You should let me take care of your hand,” Aramis said, stepping close, too close, d’Artagnan didn’t think he could take direct contact from any of them right now, and if he’d eaten anything in the last…day, two days, he probably would have been hunched over in the gutter by now.

“Later.”

Treville broke the standoff. “Let’s do this then, gentlemen.”

Pepin’s wife was scared as she opened the door, already grieving for a missing husband, and it was d’Artagnan’s job to bring her more grief. The child couldn’t have been more than eight, eyes wide, so young, too young to understand what was being said, that her father was never coming home, and what did it matter that Pepin had died for the king? Died for a man who was selfish and cruel and petty and—

_Breathe. Focus._

He crouched to meet the girl’s eyes, reached out and touched her cheek before he thought better of it. She was more upset that her mother was upset, and d’Artagnan almost lost himself in the simplicity of her emotions. She would understand when she was older that her father had been doomed to die anyway, that pride was empty and cold when there wasn’t money to put food on the table, when there wasn’t a father to hold her close. She wouldn’t ever know how truly hurt the king had been by Pepin’s death, and d’Artagnan couldn’t ever tell her, and he wanted…

Stand. Nod at the widow. Pivot, hand on hilt, start walking, one foot in front of the other. Couldn’t stay here, too loud, too much pain and anger and betrayal, a thick, inescapable sludge. Keep walking, can’t stop now, just a little further until—

The universe collapsed down to the single point of contact on his chin, skin on skin like a burning brand, _Aramis_ , worriedconfusedscaredhelpless, but then it was gone and the storm came crashing back down. Brief glimpses of Athos through it all, steady and sure as always, and it was right and safe and finally okay to let go.


	3. An Ordinary Man, pt 2

Athos thought, later, that he should have recognised it before it happened. Sunk in thoughts of Anne, though, he was paying little attention to the others, and it wasn’t until Porthos’ alarmed “d'Artagnan, you – d'Artagnan!” that he looked up. Porthos had one hand locked around d'Artagnan’s arm, dragging him out of the path of a carriage; Aramis was already moving in to look at him. Treville, beside Athos, watched, concerned.

“What is it?” he asked after a moment.

Aramis shook his head absently, gently touching d'Artagnan’s chin to lift his face. “Not sure yet.”

“Perhaps the street is not the best place…?” Athos suggested, trying to hide his concern. d'Artagnan was completely pliant in Aramis’ hands.

Aramis ignored him, murmuring something Athos didn’t catch to Porthos. Porthos nodded, turning to Treville. “With your leave, sir, I’ll fetch Flora to the garrison.”

“Flora,” Treville repeated, frowning. “The lady from the Court of Miracles?”

“d'Artagnan’s gone,” Aramis said softly. “Completely withdrawn. Overwhelmed, I’m guessing. This isn’t something I can help with, sir.”

“Should we not bring him to her, then?” Athos suggested. “It would save time.”

Aramis hesitated, looking at Porthos. “It might…”

“He’s safe enough there,” Porthos assured him. “Flea and Flora’ll make sure.”

Aramis nodded, carefully taking a step back. “I should – distance myself, for now.”

“Is he hurting?” Athos asked quietly. d'Artagnan was entirely still, eyes unfocused.

“He’s _nothing._ There’s _nothing._ It’s…disconcerting. And there’s nothing I can do for him.”

“I’ll take him,” Athos decided, glancing at Treville for permission.

“You know where you’re going?” Porthos asked.

“If not, I’ll ask. He has free passage, yes?”

“Yeah. And you turn up with him looking like that, Flora won’t be hard to find.”

Athos nodded, turning to d'Artagnan. The boy had managed to turn to look at them, but he was clearly not following anything they were saying or doing, blinking dazedly at them. “d'Artagnan,” Athos murmured. “Come with me.”

d'Artagnan twitched, but nothing else happened. Athos touched his arm, tugging gently until d'Artagnan stumbled towards him. Step by slow step, they headed for the Court.

Athos stopped at the edge of the Court, unwilling to risk going any further. d'Artagnan was still following, but he was clearly distressed and getting worse. He could focus on Athos, when he tried, but he couldn’t seem to muster any words, and he was having increasing trouble staying on his feet.

Athos glanced around for the nearest guard, picking him out easily from the usual beggars and street people. “I need to see Flora.”

“Don’t know no Floras,” the man said.

Athos sighed. “We are Porthos’ brothers. d'Artagnan has Flea’s protection and the freedom of the Court. Fetch me Flora, now.”

The man didn’t move. Athos grimaced; his purse was empty, gone to Pepin’s widow. “I have no money now, but I will see you recompensed later.”

“That’s what they all say,” the man agreed.

Another guard drifted towards them, eyeing the pair. “That’s Flora’s boy, isn’t it?” he asked as he came within range.

“Please fetch Flora,” Athos said quickly. “He’s in trouble, in pain. Please.”

“Flora don’t leave the Court. Bring him in; I’ll show you.”

“He can’t go much further.”

“Don’t have to. Come on.”

He led Athos and d'Artagnan to a room a couple of streets inside the boundaries of the Court, leaving them there while he went to look for Flora. There was a chair, a table with a lamp on it, and not much else; Athos settled d'Artagnan in the chair and lit the lamp before crouching in front of him.

“d'Artagnan,” he murmured.

d'Artagnan flinched, head rolling on his neck until he was more or less looking in Athos’ direction. His lips shaped a word that might have been _Athos_ , but there was no sound behind it.

Athos sighed, reaching up to brush d'Artagnan’s hair out of his eyes. “I’m sorry this is happening,” he murmured. “I’m sorry I didn’t think to make sure you were all right. I was – Anne, but there’s no excuse. Forgive me.”

He’d say it all over again when d'Artagnan was well enough to hear him, because he knew the boy wasn’t taking any of it in right now, but he needed to say it, to hear it out loud.

He made to stand; d'Artagnan’s hand shot out, encircling his wrist tightly. “All right,” he agreed, moving back to sit beside the chair, leaning against d'Artagnan’s leg. “I’m not going anywhere. Right here with you.” d'Artagnan’s grip shifted only enough to slide under his shirt sleeve, making skin contact. Athos leaned against the chair, letting him do what he wanted, and a moment later d'Artagnan came off the chair completely to huddle on the floor, leaning into Athos as though he was cold. Athos wrapped an arm around his shoulders, supporting him as best he could.

Flora appeared a few minutes later, going straight to her knees beside d'Artagnan. “What happened?” she demanded, touching his cheek and grimacing in dismay.

“d'Artagnan, and a noble he was bound to protect, were taken by slavers,” Athos told her. He hadn’t moved; as long as d'Artagnan wanted him here, he wasn’t moving. “They were there for a little under two days before we were able to free them.”

“Oh, d'Artagnan,” Flora murmured.

“Can you help him?”

“It’ll take time,” she warned him.

“Time is not something we are short of.”

“You’re sure?”

“Captain Treville is aware of this. We have what time we need.” He glanced down at d'Artagnan. “Is he in pain?”

“He’s not in anything, not where he is.” She glanced at the grip d'Artagnan still had on his arm. “I can get him to let go of you, if you want.”

Athos shook his head. “It’s not bothering me, and if it’s helping him, it’s fine.”

Flora nodded, looking back at d'Artagnan. "Why is he so hurt? So betrayed? What happened?"

Athos considered for a moment. "The noble promised clemency to a man if he helped them, and then rescinded and tried to have d'Artagnan execute him. When d'Artagnan refused, the noble blamed him for their ever being in danger in the first place. When d'Artagnan left him he went straight to the family of a man who'd died helping him protect the noble to tell them."

"And it didn't occur to anyone that this might be a problem?" Flora demanded.

"I have no excuse," Athos said softly. "I'm sorry. It will not happen again."

“It shouldn’t have happened at all,” Flora said sharply, and then relented. “All right; you won’t let it happen again.”

She turned her attention to d'Artagnan then, murmuring softly to him, keeping one hand on him all the time. Athos watched, though he had no idea what was happening; only that d'Artagnan’s hand flexed, loosening and tightening, and never let go.

Eventually Flora sat back, shaking her head.

“What’s wrong?” Athos asked urgently.

She glanced distractedly at him. “I need Jean.”

“Jean?”

“My friend, the one who blocked d'Artagnan’s Ability before.”

Athos shifted, sitting straighter. “d'Artagnan despises that.”

“I know he does.” Flora studied him for a moment and then moved to sit cross legged, facing him. “Right now, all of Paris is screaming in his head. That’s what he’s hiding from. I can’t build his shields for him, and he can’t do it from where he is right now. If I bring him back, he will have to face it all until he can build a shield again. It will hurt him, Athos, badly.”

“The block hurts him.”

“It will hurt him less than the alternative.” She looked back at d'Artagnan, brushing hair away from his eyes. d'Artagnan followed the movement, but there was no indication he’d recognised Flora. “I won’t do it without your agreement, Athos.”

“Pardon me?”

“You’re his brother. I leave his fate to you.”

“Flora…”

She looked up at him and Athos bit off the protest.

“He trusts you more than anyone,” she said quietly.

“I am not someone to be trusted.”

“It’s too late for that now. d'Artagnan would do anything for you. You need to honour that.”

Athos looked down at d'Artagnan, still curled into him. “How long will the block be up?”

“Until he’s steady enough to shield; less than a day, I think. Maybe only a few hours. It will depend how quickly he comes back to himself.”

“d'Artagnan,” Athos said carefully. d'Artagnan tilted his head to look at him, but there was no comprehension in his eyes. He was obviously too far gone; Athos felt a twist of fear that he firmly suppressed.

“Forgive me,” he whispered to d’Artagnan, and “Do it,” to Flora.

Someone must have been outside, because Flora was gone for only moments before she came back. “He won’t be long,” she murmured. “Do you need anything? A drink, something to eat?”

Athos wanted to be drunk so badly he could taste it. “No, thank you.” Flora raised an eyebrow, and he remembered that she knew exactly how he was feeling, but she didn’t push it.

Jean arrived only a short time later; Flora glanced at Athos, obviously aware of his surprise. “d'Artagnan’s strong,” she said quietly. “We are too familiar with the pain of empathy to let him suffer any longer than we have to.”

“I am grateful,” Athos murmured. “What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing. Just stay where you are; he’ll wake soon, and your presence calms him.”

Jean flinched when he touched d'Artagnan, sighing. “No luck at all, have you?” he murmured, pressing a hand to d'Artagnan’s cheek. d'Artagnan shifted, but he didn’t speak, didn’t move. Athos tightened his grip anyway.

Athos had seen Jean do this before, but it took longer this time, and Jean looked drained when he sat back. “He shouldn’t have come back to the city, not until he was steadier.”

“I take responsibility,” Athos said. “I should have thought to speak with him, to see how he was.”

Flora snorted. “Speaking with him wouldn’t have done much good, he’s too stubborn. You’ll remember this, though, Comte. He never stops himself in time; he thinks his pain is worth it. Especially for you. For what you need.”

“I’ll remember,” Athos promised, not bothering to wonder how she knew who he was.

Jean excused himself, promising to return when he was needed. Flora curled herself into a corner and, to all appearances, dozed off. Athos stayed where he was, holding d'Artagnan, waiting patiently for him to wake.

When he woke it happened all at once, tensing against Athos’ hold, looking around desperately. “Where…”

“d'Artagnan,” Athos said firmly. “Calm.”

“I can’t – why can’t I – Athos?”

“It’s me,” Athos agreed. “We’re in the Court of Miracles; Flora had Jean block you, temporarily, until you can get some shields back up again.”

“Block,” d'Artagnan echoed, finally relaxing against him. “Where are the others?”

“At the garrison. They’re fine. Everyone is fine except for you.” Athos glanced at Flora, still determinedly feigning sleep in the corner. “d'Artagnan, I’m sorry,” he said more quietly.

“Sorry?” d'Artagnan echoed.

“You spent two days in that camp, and I did not even ask how you were before ordering you back to the city.”

“You were occupied,” d'Artagnan murmured.

“My personal concerns should not have blinded me to your needs. I knew you were not yourself and I overlooked it. It will not happen again; you have my word.”

“Although you really should have said something,” Flora added, unrolling from her corner. d'Artagnan jumped at her voice, tensing against Athos again before relaxing.

“Flora,” he murmured. “It wasn’t so bad, I thought. But Bruno, and then the Pepins…it caught up with me.” Shifting slightly, he added, “Athos, the others, they’re all right?”

“They are,” Athos agreed, frowning slightly. He’d already answered that.

“We can send for them,” Flora offered. “If it would help.”

d'Artagnan tensed again. “I’m fine,” he said, in the tone that Athos knew meant he was lying.

Flora glanced at Athos, shaking her head. “I’ll send for them.”

“What’s wrong?” Athos murmured as she headed for the door.

“I can’t feel them,” d'Artagnan said miserably. “I believe you, but I can’t – I don’t know it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for this time?”

“I told Flora to place the block.”

d'Artagnan was very still for a moment. “All right,” he said finally.

“I know it hurts you. She said that waking you without it would be worse.”

“All right,” d'Artagnan repeated.

“I’m sorry.”

“Athos…” d'Artagnan shook his head. “Stop apologising. I trust you.”

“Don’t,” Athos murmured.

d'Artagnan huffed out a laugh. “Too late now; I can’t stop. If it happens again, Athos, if I can’t speak for myself, do what you think is right. I will never think you had anything but my best interests at heart.”

Flora came back, settling cross legged beside them. “Can you work with me, d'Artagnan?”

“Tired,” he murmured.

“I know. Sooner we get some shields up, sooner Jean can come unblock you. Can you do it? Don’t lie to me.”

“I never lie to a lady,” d'Artagnan said with the same huff of laughter. “I can do it. I’d rather.” He shifted enough to look over his shoulder at Athos. “Stay?”

“As you like.” His foot was going numb, but he had no intention of moving.

Flora glanced at him, and for a moment he thought she’d tell d'Artagnan to move; but she just turned back to him, taking one of his hands in hers. “All right. Begin.”

Athos could tell d'Artagnan was working hard, but the fragments of sentences Flora was murmuring meant nothing to him. He just sat, supporting d'Artagnan, smiling encouragement when the boy turned to look at him. His sense of time was shot, and he didn’t know how long it had been when Aramis and Porthos arrived; d'Artagnan relaxed when he saw them, but neither attempted to speak, just joining them on the floor, both pressing a hand to d'Artagnan’s arm or back in silent support.

Eventually Flora sat back, sighing. “I don’t like it.”

“I’ll come back,” d'Artagnan said softly. “Tomorrow, day after. Just let me go home and sleep. It’ll help.”

“It will, I suppose. All right. I’ll go and find Jean.”

Aramis shifted as she left. “d'Artagnan?”

“Not as strong as she likes,” d'Artagnan murmured. “Strong enough for a night, or two. Especially back at the garrison.”

“Shielding on the brotherhood,” Aramis agreed. “You’re sure?”

“Sure enough.”

“d'Artagnan,” Porthos said carefully.

d'Artagnan squinted at him. “If you’re going to apologise, don’t.”

“We should’ve seen…”

“You don’t see if I don’t want you to.” It wasn’t a boast, only matter of fact. 

“I saw,” Aramis said. “And I ignored it, because the king – I’m sorry, d'Artagnan. I knew you were more injured than you looked.”

“I thought I was all right. I wasn’t expecting Bruno, and it upset me enough that Pepin’s family destroyed what shields I had left. I was all right until Bruno.”

“Until Louis betrayed you,” Athos murmured.

d'Artagnan twitched. “Louis is king,” he said flatly. “His judgement is infallible.”

“Louis is a man,” Athos murmured.

“Treason,” Aramis said, sing song.

d'Artagnan shook his head, but before he could answer Flora was back, Jean trailing behind her. “You’ll come back tomorrow,” she said, waving Aramis out of the way. “That’s the deal.”

“Tomorrow,” Athos agreed when d'Artagnan was silent. “I will make sure.”

“Good,” Flora said briskly. “Look at me, d'Artagnan.”

Jean leaned in to touch d'Artagnan’s cheek; d'Artagnan hissed in a breath, hand tightening on Athos’ wrist until he was almost numb, and then gradually relaxed. “Ow,” he mumbled.

“d'Artagnan?” Athos said mildly.

“I’m fine. That was…not what I expected. I’m fine.”

“Take him home,” Flora told Athos. “Make sure he only touches his own things, or things he’s touched before, things he knows. If you three could stay near him, that would help.”

“I didn’t have anything to do tonight,” Porthos said airily, and Aramis nodded.

“And make sure he comes back tomorrow. I don’t care if the city’s burning down around us.”

“Noted,” Athos agreed.

Flora glanced at d'Artagnan. “Keep away from your noble if you can,” she said softly. “For a little while, at least.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem for a while,” d'Artagnan said bleakly. “I’m quite sure I’m in disgrace at the moment.”

“We’ll deal with that,” Athos promised. “Let’s go. Can you walk?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Whether he was or not, he kept hold of Athos’ arm all the way back to the garrison, and Athos did nothing to draw attention to it. It was little enough to make up for his failures.

 

"He didn't realise."

Athos glanced up from his book. Still recovering, d'Artagnan had been sleeping for a while, rousing now and then to solemnly tell them things that mostly sounded like nonsense.

"Who didn't?" he asked anyway.

"Louis." d'Artagnan was watching a patch of sunlight on the ceiling of his room. "He never really – not properly."

Athos frowned, standing from his chair and crossing to the bed. d'Artagnan met his gaze for a moment, clear eyed, before looking back at the ceiling.

"Do you need anything?" Athos asked quietly.

"No. Thank you."

"I can call Aramis..."

"I'm not in pain. Thank you."

"And your head?"

"My head's a little full," d'Artagnan admitted. "I'm working through it."

"Full of Louis?"

"And Pepin, and Bruno Lemaitre, and all the others. I'll get there. Saying it out loud helps. You don't need to stay."

"I'm released from my duties for today," Athos told him. "What about Louis?"

"He didn't realise."

"Realise what?"

"How –“ d'Artagnan swallowed. "How loyal we are. What we'd do for him. I stepped in front of a pistol for him and it surprised him."

Athos frowned. "We're his regiment."

"Yes. He knew that. He just didn't – _know_ it. Not properly. "

"A pistol?"

"Lemaitre realised he was a noble. Not who he was, thank God. But a noble – he was going to kill him right there." d'Artagnan blinked suddenly, looking away from the patch of light to meet Athos' eyes. "Milady saved us. Where is – I'm sorry, Athos, I wasn't thinking..."

"Hardly your fault. She rode back to Paris with us. Where she is now, I neither know nor care."

That was a blatant lie, but d'Artagnan didn't call him on it, only nodded slowly. "I don't know if I could have gotten us away without her."

"I'm quite sure she had her reasons, and sparing your life was not one of them."

"She's going to be his mistress," d'Artagnan said dreamily, and then blanched as though he hadn't realised what he was saying. " _Christ_. I'm sorry, Athos."

Athos shook his head. "My wife's schemes and plans are not your fault and never will be, d'Artagnan. She thinks she can get at the King?"

"She has an in now," d'Artagnan muttered. "And he won't know what she is. Not unless you claim her. He'll hardly believe me."

Athos crouched, wrapping one hand around the back of d'Artagnan's shoulder. "You made the right choice," he said quietly. "It's Louis' right to extend and refuse clemency as he sees fit, but we are not murderers and he should not have asked you."

"He was already angry at the regiment."

"He's often angry at the regiment. You weren't here the winter he turned us out of the garrison because – I don't remember, some imagined slight to a noble. We all practised in the fields outside the west gate and lodged anywhere there was room, and woe betide us if our uniforms were dirty or our weapons ill maintained. Louis is capricious and he turns quickly. If you hadn't angered him yesterday, someone else would have tomorrow, and Rochefort isn't helping matters, but in a week he'll have forgotten." Athos studied him for a moment. "Can you keep protecting him, now?"

d'Artagnan nodded slowly. "I'm loyal to the Crown and to the regiment. I'll protect him."

"Good man," Athos said softly. 

"Did you think I wouldn't?"

"Others have left for lighter slights."

d'Artagnan shook his head, eyes finding the patch of sunlight again. "Did I make trouble for Treville?"

"It doesn't matter; he supports your decision."

"Athos..."

"No worse trouble than we had already. Louis has convinced himself that it's our fault he was in that tavern in the first place."

"Of course he has," d'Artagnan murmured. "I don't understand; he's not like that. You know that."

"He was afraid," Athos said quietly. "Fear does strange things to a man. Any man."

"Mmmm. I think I'm hungry."

"Good. Stay there. I'll fetch something." d'Artagnan nodded absently, and when Athos glanced back from the door he was staring at the patch of light again. Athos shook off a sense of foreboding, closing the door carefully behind himself and heading for the yard.


	4. The Good Traitor

“The Dauphin is ill; a fever.”

D’Artagnan stumbled through an answer – he wasn’t sure what he’d said, but Constance seemed satisfied – and waited for her to hurry off before turning to Aramis. Athos already had a hand wrapped around his arm. “No,” he said firmly.

“Athos…”

“No, Aramis. You’re leaving with us.”

“Did you not hear? The Dauphin –“

“Is _ill_. Not injured. And he’ll be surrounded by ladies and nurses and the queen and the doctor. Maybe even the king. Are you going to stroll up to the Dauphin’s crib and lay on hands in front of all of them?”

“I don’t know. Let me go!”

“No. Walk or be dragged.” He turned, walking briskly out.

d’Artagnan trailed behind them, blocking out Aramis’ panic. “No one’s panicking upstairs,” he offered when he caught up to them in the grounds of the palace. “Worried, but not frantic. Children fall ill, Aramis. Usually they’re fine.”

“Usually.” Aramis jerked free of Athos’ grip, though he didn’t make any effort to go back inside. “I can’t just walk away from him.”

“That’s what we’re for,” Athos said evenly. “You will have to fight me to get back into the palace, Aramis.”

Aramis stared at him for a moment before turning to Porthos. “Porthos…”

“You can’t,” Porthos said regretfully. “King couldn’t possibly turn a blind eye. He’d kill you soon as you tried. And it’s illness, not injury. You might not even be able to help. We can’t let you do it.”

d’Artagnan shook his head when Aramis turned to him. “You’d be walking into your death, Aramis.”

“I would die a thousand times over for him.”

“When it means something, yes. We’d be right beside you, you know that. But there’s no way you can help him now.”

“Come back to the garrison with us,” Porthos urged him. “Constance is with him, and the doctor. Come on.”

Aramis let them led him back to the horses; he mounted and rode out with them. But he was watching the palace the whole time, right up until it was lost to view.

d'Artagnan gritted his teeth against the sense of loss and rode on.

 

 

Aramis wasn’t surprised to find d'Artagnan at his door. He stepped back to make room without actually inviting him in. “Come to chastise me?”

“No.” d'Artagnan closed the door, staying awkwardly beside it. “I came to see if you’re all right.”

Aramis dropped into his chair, spreading his hands. “And am I?”

d'Artagnan was silent.

Aramis leaned forward, studying him. “Have you spoken to Athos?”

“I haven’t spoken to anyone.” He took a step closer. “What distracted you, Aramis?”

“The child.” d'Artagnan shook his head and Aramis explained “There was a child, a babe, crying in the market. As if he were ill.”

“Like the Dauphin,” d'Artagnan said slowly.

“If I could just get my hands on him…”

“It’s an illness. Not an injury. You couldn’t help.” Aramis started to speak and d'Artagnan said over him “And he’s Louis’ son. You told me so.”

“Words. He’s mine.”

“Either way, Athos won’t let you near him.”

“I don’t understand why Louis won’t let me help him,” Aramis said restlessly.

“He will if he thinks he needs to.”

“It might be too late by then.” d'Artagnan was silent, and Aramis sighed. “Say it.”

“Anything I say will sound like an accusation, even though it’s not. I’m not here to judge you.”

“Nor to grant me absolution, I suppose.”

d'Artagnan smiled faintly. “You wouldn’t take it from me anyway. It’s Porthos you need for that.”

“Well, let us hope we retrieve him, then.”

“We will.”

“You’re remarkably optimistic, d'Artagnan.”

“You haven’t let me down yet.” d'Artagnan glanced around. “Would you like me to stay with you?”

“You’re very kind.” Aramis forced a smile. “But I fear I’d be poor company.”

“The point is not for you to keep me company.”

“No. Thank you.”

d'Artagnan hesitated before nodding. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Aramis nodded, but he didn’t stand. d'Artagnan let himself out quietly. Aramis picked up his rosary – _her_ rosary. He thought of the Dauphin, and of Porthos; two of the people he loved most in the world, hurting and far beyond his reach.

Bowing his head, he began to pray.

 

Porthos settled at the table in the garrison yard, flicking through the book of poetry. Some of the poems were in French, some in Arabic, and he ran a gentle finger over the neat printing.

“New book?” Aramis asked, sitting down opposite him.

“A gift.” Porthos offered it to him; Aramis skimmed through it, raised an eyebrow at the Arabic, and put it back down.

“How’s your leg? Any pain?”

“Nah, it’s fine. Not a twinge.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Not your fault.” Aramis flinched, leaning back; Porthos frowned, studying him. “You think this was your fault? Why?”

Aramis leaned forward again, interlacing his fingers on the tabletop, studying them intently. “I hesitated.”

“Hesitated?”

Aramis’ eyes flicked up to his and immediately back down. “In the square, during the handover. I had a shot, but I hesitated.”

Porthos took a breath. “Why?”

“There was a babe, crying. My thoughts went to the Dauphin, and – a heartbeat, two, that’s all it was, Porthos. But by the time I’d refocused, it was too late. Tariq was in my line of fire, I couldn’t make the shot. And you were taken. Injured. Because of me.”

Porthos stared at his book for a long time. “I’m guessing you haven’t told anyone this,” he said finally. “Because if Treville knew, you’d be on report.”

“d’Artagnan knows, but he – well, he didn’t say he wouldn’t tell, but I don’t think he will. I told Athos I couldn’t make the shot.”

“You’re lying about it now?”

“I’ll tell him. I just thought you deserved to get the first shot at me.”

Porthos studied him. “You’re an idiot. You know that.” Aramis hunched in on himself, and Porthos continued, “You’ll have to choose. Either he’s yours, and the queen’s a traitor, or he’s not, and this stops.”

“I know,” Aramis murmured. “It’s a hard – but I know. I will.”

“You made a mistake,” Porthos continued. “A bad mistake, but a mistake. There’s a hundred ways that mission could have gone bad, we all knew that going in. And you won’t make that mistake again, will you?”

Aramis’ eyes met his. “On my life, Porthos.”

“Good. Then we’re done talking about this. Tell Athos or don’t, up to you, but you and me, we’re fine.”

“Thank you,” Aramis murmured, lowering his head.

Porthos let him sit in silence for a minute before deliberately lightening his voice. “I hear the Dauphin’s on the mend.”

“Yes,” Aramis agreed. “Thanks to the intervention of our Constance.”

“I’m sure d’Artagnan would thank her for you,” Porthos said with a grin.

“I’m sure he would, assuming they’re speaking this week. I find it difficult to keep track.”

“I’m pretty sure they are. Today.” Porthos rapped the book lightly against the table. “I know it was hard for you, knowing he was sick and not being able to do anything about it. I’m sorry for that.”

“Yes, well.” He smiled bitterly. “Downside. I’m going to talk to Athos. I’ll see you this evening?”

“I’ll be here.”

d’Artagnan paused by the table to watch Aramis leave. “Is he all right?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you?” Porthos shrugged. “He’ll be all right. He knows I don’t blame him.”

“I’m glad. It nearly killed him to think he’d put you in danger.”

Porthos nodded. d’Artagnan clapped him on the shoulder and went on about his work, leaving Porthos sitting alone at the table.


	5. Emilie

d'Artagnan went to fetch Aramis’ horse, leaving the three older Musketeers to say their goodbyes. They weren’t used to being separated for missions, but they couldn’t all go on this one.

Jacques had a horse saddled and ready, but it was one of the spares, not Aramis’. Frowning, d'Artagnan went deeper into the stables, finding Jacques with Aramis’ horse in a rear stall. “Problem?” he asked, leaning against the railing.

Jacques glanced up at him. “He’s not fit for a mission,” he said, stroking the horse slowly.

“Why not?”

“Weak muscle in the hip, here. Probably fine, but if Aramis has to get out in a hurry…don’t want him relying on it. He’ll be fine for the next mission.”

d'Artagnan slipped into the stall, joining Jacques to examine the horse. “Good catch,” he said, impressed. “I wouldn’t have noticed. Well done.”

Jacques shrugged, looking down, pleased. “Animals are easy. They’ve always been easy.”

d'Artagnan didn’t ask; he knew better, by now. “Well, I’m impressed. Is the other ready? I’ll take him out for Aramis.”

“He’s ready. Aramis has ridden him before, he’ll know how to handle him.”

“Thanks, Jacques.” d'Artagnan clapped him on the arm, ducking back out of the stall and leading the tacked up horse out into the courtyard.

Athos and Porthos were still giving Aramis advice; he was nodding along patiently even though he wasn’t listening properly. He didn’t really need to, of course. He’d heard all their advice before.

Eventually he managed to break away from them and join d'Artagnan, stroking the horse absently and running an eye over the saddlebags. “Thank you, d'Artagnan.”

“Of course,” d'Artagnan agreed. Glancing towards the others, he added, “I won’t say it all again, Aramis, but –“

“I know,” Aramis agreed. “Why am I riding this horse?”

“Yours has a strained muscle. Safe to ride, but maybe not for a quick getaway. I’m impressed Jacques caught it, I would have missed it.”

“Jacques’s always been better with horses than people.” Aramis opened one of the saddlebags, poking around in it.

“Really.” d'Artagnan put as much meaning as he could into the word.

“Stop fishing, d'Artagnan,” Aramis said mildly.

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know you didn’t ask. I could hear you not asking. It’s the loudest not asking I’ve heard in a long time.”

“Don’t you have a mission you should be going on?”

“Yes.” Aramis sighed, catching the reigns and turning towards the gate. “Yes, I have a mission I should be going on.”

“Problem?” d'Artagnan asked, keeping pace with him.

Aramis shook his head. “No.”

d'Artagnan was silent.

“You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve been told. Mostly by you. What’s wrong?”

Aramis shook his head again. “I believe that people can be touched by God, d'Artagnan. If this girl really is hearing His word…”

“If she is, who better to know it?” d'Artagnan asked. “Treville will believe you. If she’s really hearing God, she’ll need someone who believes her.”

“I suppose,” Aramis agreed, unconvinced.

“Maybe that’s why you were chosen for the mission?”

Aramis smiled faintly. “A valiant effort, d'Artagnan, but I know your level of piety.”

“Faith means different things to different people.”

They reached the gate, where Athos and Porthos were waiting. “Got everything?” Porthos asked. “Sure you don’t want me to come along?”

“We don’t know how long this will take,” Aramis told him. “You can’t stay Faded for that long. I’ll be fine.”

“We won’t be far away,” Athos said, watching him.

“I know,” Aramis promised. “I’ll be careful.”

“I hope so.”

d'Artagnan held the reigns as Aramis mounted, passing them up to him. “Safe travels, Aramis.”

“I’ll see you in a couple of days,” he promised, turning his horse and heading away down the road.

Porthos draped an arm around d'Artagnan’s shoulder. “Let’s go practice, huh?”

“Sure,” d'Artagnan agreed. Athos was not in the mood for company right now; he hated seeing any of them go into danger alone, even uncertain danger like this was. “Let’s go.”

 

Aramis fingered the flask he was carrying over one shoulder. It might not be the answer, but the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became.

Constance was avoiding him. She was polite and solicitous towards Anne, but not anything like as friendly as he’d seen her be in the past. Anne was clearly feeling the lack, but she hadn’t complained, hadn’t even brought it up.

They stopped to rest the horses, and Aramis took the opportunity to separate them, drawing Constance away a little to refill their water skins. “Constance –“

“Madame Bonacieux,” she corrected him. There was no anger in her voice, but he flinched anyway; he’d never called her Madame, not since the day they’d met, and she’d never demanded it.

“Madame,” he repeated quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you? What are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry that I’ve brought you pain.”

She studied him for a moment. “You’re not sorry for the treason, then.”

“It was never my intent to commit treason.”

“She is _married!_ She’s married to the _King!_ ”

“You’re married,” he pointed out. “That didn’t stop you.”

He took the slap without flinching; he deserved it, if not for that comment then for any of his other numerous sins.

“Men,” Constance said in disgust. “Not one of you can think past your trousers.”

“Anne is not in love with Louis –“

“ _The Queen. The King._ ”

“The Queen is not in love with the King,” he corrected himself obediently. “He is not in love with her; he humiliates her in front of the whole Court. Do you blame her for wanting comfort?”

“Comfort is one thing,” Constance snapped. “You’re sworn to defend the king and his family in all things. That doesn’t include sleeping with the queen.”

“Mad – _Constance_. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Is that why you’re sleeping with Marguerite? I know you don’t love her. Is it just to get close to the Queen?”

“No. It’s not to get close to the Queen.”

“What is it, then? She’s a nice girl, she hopes to make a good marriage here and you’re putting all that at risk for her. Why bother?”

“Be careful,” he said quietly. “There are things that you don’t wish to know.”

Constance stared at him for a long time. Aramis bore it patiently.

“Stay away from the Queen,” she said finally.

“So far as it is within my power,” he promised.

“And stop seeing Marguerite. It’s unfair to both of you and it puts the Queen at risk, if anyone were to even suspect…”

Aramis struggled with that for a moment, but he didn’t really have a choice. “I agree to your conditions, Constance.”

“Do the others know this?”

He should have lied to protect the others, but that would only make things worse at this point. “Yes. But only them. I’ve told no one else and never will.” 

“Oh good, you’re protecting your own neck,” she snorted.

“Constance,” he said quietly, “I can understand your anger. But please, turn it against me, not against the Queen. This was not her fault; I should never have placed her in this position. She needs you. Please, don’t be angry with her.”

Constance sighed, scowling half heartedly. “I’m still angry at you.”

“That’s fine. Be angry with me all you like. I deserve it.”

She pushed to her feet, slinging the water skins over her shoulder. “Let’s get going, then.” She went back to Anne, smiling at her and offering her the water skin.

Aramis finished what he was doing and went to remount, feeling lighter.

 

Athos sent both Aramis and d’Artagnan away as soon as Emilie was confined. If their suspicions were right, this would be rough, and he didn’t want either of them anywhere near it. He didn’t much want Madame Bonacieux anywhere near it, either, but he needed help and she refused to go.

“This will not be easy,” he warned her quietly, one eye on Emilie. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, head down and eyes focused on clasped hands. _Preparing to undergo torture_ , he thought, and the twist in his stomach surprised him. “If Professor Lemay is right about the stew -”

“He’s right,” Madame Bonacieux said quietly. She looked troubled. Athos made a mental note to have Aramis talk to her later.

“Then this will be bad. She’s been taking these substances for a long time. Perhaps years. There will be pain. She will try to fight us; she will use anything she can against us. Words, fists. If you wish to leave, now or at any point…”

She lifted her chin. “If there’s someone else you’d rather have here…”

“There’s no one. And I know that you are strong, strong enough for this. But should you wish to leave, I want you to know that you can. Say it.”

She studied him for a long moment before nodding. “I understand. I can leave if I want to.”

“Good.” He turned back to study Emilie. “Then I will do you the courtesy of not asking again, and you will do me the courtesy of leaving if you need to. Let’s get ready.”

It was every bit as hard as he’d expected. He kept Emilie’s focus on him when she was physically violent, but he could do little to blunt her verbal attacks. Madame Bonacieux tried to reason with her at first, but she slowly came to realise that Emilie was beyond reason. She went about her work in grim silence with her head down, avoiding eye contact, refusing to rise to Emilie’s bait. Athos was fiercely proud of her.

He still sent her out a couple of times, under the guise of fetching supplies. She fought him the first time; the second time she just went. He took that as a sign that he was right to send her. Luckily, Emilie barely knew them; she had nothing intimate to taunt them with. Most of her jibes focused on the pleasure they seemed to gain from torturing her.

Eventually she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. Athos took the opportunity to eat and make sure Madame Bonacieux ate, and he got them both cleaned up. Madame Bonacieux tidied Emilie up a little while she slept, and then they waited.

When she woke this time she was weak and afraid, begging for respite. Athos ignored it. Madame Bonacieux was gentle and careful, feeding her and helping her to drink. Emilie was pitifully grateful.

She slept again, and when she woke she seemed steadier. Athos questioned her carefully, explaining their suspicions. She seemed much better. He relocated them to a proper bedroom and kept her confined for another day, just to be sure.

At the end of that time she seemed healthy, if quiet, sitting at the small table with her hands clasped together in front of her. “I can’t believe my mother would do this to me,” she said dully.

“I’m sure she didn’t mean to hurt you,” Madame Bonacieux said kindly.

“The mushrooms have some medicinal value if they’re used correctly. Perhaps she thought they would ease your nightmares,” Athos agreed neutrally. He didn’t believe anything of the sort, but if it would help her…

“The mushrooms were _causing_ the nightmares. It’s kind of you to try and spare my feelings, but my mother did this on purpose to trade on my fame.”

Athos sat, leaning forward to catch her eyes. “You understand that your army must be disbanded? Your people are peasants and farmers. Brave as any soldier, but without training or equipment. Spain will massacre them and use it as justification to invade France.”

“I understand. I will send them home if you take me back to them.” She straightened a little, watching him. “And what will happen to me then?”

“The Queen has intervened on your behalf. She feels that there has been enough death in your name. You will be freed on the condition that you return home and live there quietly. At the first hint of any seditious behaviour…” He trailed off, watching her.

Emilie nodded quietly. “Yes, of course. Please thank her majesty for her kindness.”

“I’ll make sure she knows,” Madame Bonacieux promised.

“I’m sorry for -” Emilie hesitated for a long moment. “I hope I didn’t hurt you,” she said finally.

“No, of course not,” Madame Bonacieux said quickly. “We’re fine, and you’re well now. That makes it all worth it.”

“We’ll escort you back to your army,” Athos told her. “You’ll disband them at once.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Emilie?” Madame Bonacieux said. “Don’t think too badly of Aramis. He wanted very much to believe you, and he argued against your execution.”

Emilie smiled faintly. “I will keep your words in mind, Madame.”

Athos nodded briskly, waving Madame Bonacieux out and closing the door carefully. His last glimpse of Emilie was her sitting on the side of the bed, staring vaguely at nothing.

He shook off his discomfort and went to find Treville to make arrangements to bring her home.

 

Porthos almost managed to catch d’Artagnan when he flung himself off his horse, but he was just slightly too slow. d’Artagnan plunged into the crowd, aiming for someone in particular, shouting and waving his arms; Porthos tracked his path, saw the raised hand clutching a rock, and went after him with a hurried curse.

d’Artagnan had interrupted the man long enough that he lost his rhythm, lowering his hand without throwing the stone. Porthos breathed a quiet sigh of relief, halting in the middle of the crowd to look around. People were upset, but no one else seemed murderous. He watched d’Artagnan chivvy the man away; moments later, the whole group was breaking up, people wandering away in all directions. Emilie was talking quietly with her mother, holding firm against whatever she was saying.

Athos waved Porthos and d’Artagnan back, swinging off his horse to confront the women. “You may make a new home where you please,” he told them. “But you will be watched, on and off, and you will never know by whom.”

“We understand,” Emilie assured him, ignoring her mother’s huff. “Please thank her majesty again for her mercy. She will not hear the name of Emilie of Duras again.”

d’Artagnan caught back up to Porthos, who leaned over to cuff him gently. “A little warning next time?”

“If I’d waited, Emilie might be dead,” d’Artagnan retorted, keeping his voice low. “That man wanted to hurt her. I knew I could throw him off, and I did.”

“Yeah, still. A little warning? I ain’t a young man any more, you know.”

d’Artagnan grinned, shaking his head at Athos’ look. “Everyone’s dispersing, and I don’t think there’ll be any more violence. People are upset, not angry.” Glancing at Emilie, he added, “You didn’t deliberately deceive anyone, madame. They’ll remember that, in time.”

“I hope so. I would hate for this to be my legacy.” She waved at the half-deserted field with a sigh. She nodded to Athos and headed for her tent, still mostly ignoring her mother’s angry complaints.

d’Artagnan was watching Aramis when Porthos looked back. He didn’t seem about to speak, though, so Porthos did. “You did the right thing, Aramis.”

“I took her God away from her,” Aramis said distantly.

“Her God was a cruel lie,” Athos told him. “Maybe now she can find true belief.” Porthos arched an eyebrow at him, seeing Aramis do the same - comments like that were completely out of character for Athos - and he flushed under their regard. “Let’s go,” he said abruptly, turning his horse.

“We’re not going to see them off?” d’Artagnan asked, remounting.

“No. Emilie understands the conditions on her life. She won’t risk breaking them. Let’s get back to Paris.”


	6. The Return

"Athos is missing, sir."

Treville shook his head absently. "He's drunk somewhere in town. He'll turn back up, he always does."

"No, sir," d'Artagnan said quickly. "He's not in the city. I'm certain of it."

Treville frowned, studying him. "Certain? He's not passed out somewhere, or sleeping it off?"

"No. That feels different. We went to the last tavern he was in, sir, and there'd been people there desperate to find him."

"To what end?"

"Not to kill him, but after that..." d'Artagnan spread his hands helplessly. "They wanted him very badly. As though he was their last hope."

Aramis was watching carefully. d'Artagnan's shields were strengthening, but so was his sensitivity, and what he'd picked up in the tavern had shaken him.

“I am not the captain anymore,” Treville said, turning his back to them and attacking the heap of hay with his pitchfork. “I’m just an ordinary Musketeer on work detail.” The bitterness in his tone nearly floored Aramis; he had no idea how d’Artagnan was weathering it.

“You haven’t _Seen_ anything?” d’Artagnan pressed, emphasising it.

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis said warningly, mostly out of habit.

“No,” Treville said shortly, forking the hay in random directions. “I have not.”

And he probably wouldn’t, Aramis knew. Treville _could_ force a vision, if he deemed it necessary, but it left him sick and suffering migraine, and without proof that something was wrong...

“We’re going to look in his rooms,” Porthos said, watching Treville. “See if anything’s out of place, or if d’Artagnan can pick anything up.”

“Good luck.”

“Captain.” d’Artagnan caught the pitchfork handle, holding it steady long enough to say “something is _wrong._ ”

“Athos knows that the Musketeers are looking to him now,” Aramis said, as gently as he possibly could. “He wouldn’t put that in danger, you know he wouldn’t.”

Treville sighed, propping the pitchfork against the wall. “And if there’s nothing in his rooms? You’ll drop this?”

“For today,” Aramis bargained.

Treville nodded, gesturing d’Artagnan to go first. Aramis waited until he was turned away to smile in relief.

 

d’Artagnan kept his arms wrapped tightly around himself as the others sifted through Athos’ belongings. It didn’t take long; apart from a staggering number of empty wine bottles, Athos owned very little. 

Aramis held up a handful of letters. “These are odd.”

“What are they?” d’Artagnan came to look over his shoulder; Aramis obligingly tilted them so he could see.

“Letters from Pinon,” he said, for the benefit of the others. “All in the same hand, begging the Comte de la Fere to return.”

“We are in desperate need of your protection,” d’Artagnan read out. “We entreat you to return to us and honour the responsibility of your family.” He looked up, frowning. “Athos didn’t appoint someone to look after his lands?”

Treville shrugged at his look. “Not my business.”

Porthos shook his head, and Aramis offered “We never spoke of it, but my impression was that he simply walked away.”

“But he still collects rents from them?”

“Does that matter right now?”

d’Artagnan shrugged, reaching out to flip through the letters. He shuddered briefly as he touched them. “The man who wrote these was in the tavern last night,” he said distantly, flicking through several variations on the same theme.

Aramis didn’t bother asking if he was sure. “They’ve taken Athos,” he told Treville.

“If the man who wrote those was in the tavern - he’s one of Athos’ people. He won’t hurt him.”

“They’re desperate, sir, and desperate people do desperate things.” d’Artagnan was still flipping through the same sheets; Porthos moved to take them from him.

“Pinon is only a day away,” Aramis commented idly.

“There’s no mission,” Treville reminded him sharply. “The king is angry enough with us, and you want to absent yourselves for two days on what might be nothing?”

“It might be,” Porthos agreed, offering him the letters. “But what if it isn’t?”

Treville stared at the letters, and at them. And then he reached out to take them.

 

Porthos wasn’t sure who to keep an eye on as they rode. d’Artagnan, worried about Athos and furious at whoever had taken him, was riding with the stiff gait that said he was shielding tightly. Treville was riding with his hat pulled low over his eyes; Aramis had done his best, but the pain and sickness brought on by forcing a vision never Healed all the way. They’d suggested he stay behind, but whatever he’d left out of the vision he’d described to them was bad enough that he was fighting through the pain to keep up with them.

Without discussing it, the other three left Treville out of the watch rotation, and Porthos cut Aramis’ shift short to let him recover. d’Artagnan was quiet but focused, taking his watch and joining the conversations at least a little. Porthos left it at that; he wasn’t going to baby the younger man. d’Artagnan knew well enough he was expected to tell them if he was in trouble.

None of them slept as much as they probably should have, on the road again before dawn. Treville looked better for the sleep, at least, less pinched and small. Porthos left him to Aramis and stayed close to d’Artagnan.

They weren’t more than ten minutes from Pinon - Porthos had been watching the smoke grow nearer and nearer - when Treville stiffened, shouted something he couldn’t make out, and almost fell off his horse. Aramis was close enough to steady him; Treville didn’t notice, attention entirely focused inwards.

d’Artagnan was jittering back and forth, watching Treville closely. Porthos put up with it for a minute before snapping “What?”

“Whip.”

“What?”

d’Artagnan glanced at him. “He said ‘whip’.”

“You heard that? Good ear.”

“It was in Gascon. I suppose old habits kick in. How long will he be…”

“Only a minute,” Porthos said firmly. “You stay here with us, don’t go riding off.”

“But -”

“It might not be about Athos.” Aramis spoke without looking away from Treville. “He didn’t force this vision. It might be about anything.”

d’Artagnan scowled, pulling his horse in beside Porthos. He was still jittery, but at least he didn’t seem likely to rush headlong into who knew what. 

Aramis snapped his fingers at Porthos, who unhooked a wineskin and passed it over. Treville took a sip but then pushed it away, eyes fever bright. “ _Ride!_ ” he ordered, clapping his heels against his horse’s flanks. Taken by surprise, the others scattered out of his path, turning to follow him as quickly as they could.

d’Artagnan was in the lead as they entered the village; Porthos saw and dismissed the horses galloping out on the far side of the tiny town square, ignoring them in favour of Athos, who was painfully picking himself up from the ground. d’Artagnan had engaged a horseman, but his angle was bad and he came off his horse, allowing the other man to escape. Aramis bounded off his horse, hurrying to Athos’ side and tugging his shirt to cover the blood on his back.

Porthos climbed down, pulling his _main gauche_ to free Athos’ hands. “See you’re just as good at making friends here as you are in Paris,” he said dryly.

“A minor difference of opinion,” Athos answered, gritting his teeth as Aramis laid a hand against his back.

“You’re fortunate,” Aramis said loudly. “The cut’s shallow, it’s just bled a lot. You’ll barely notice it.”

“Jeanne!”

Porthos looked up sharply, taking half a step forward as one of the villagers hurried towards them. Athos touched his arm, motioning him aside. “What is it, Bertand?”

“Jeanne is gone, my lord! They took her!”

Porthos and Treville took the distraught man aside to try and get some details from him. Aramis made a show of cleaning Athos’ back; Athos made a show of wincing, but not too much. The rest of the villagers stood around, watching.

d’Artagnan talked to a couple of them, and then came back to stand near Athos and Aramis, eyes dark as he waited. Porthos caught Treville’s eye, casually wandering over to stand nearby.

Athos turned away from Aramis, and d’Artagnan took a step forward. “Athos. Give up your title if it makes you happy. I mean that. But think about these people. They live on your land. They need your help.”

“I have nothing to offer them,” Athos said coldly, moving to step past him.

“If I didn't know you better, I'd say that sounded pretty cowardly.” d’Artagnan’s voice was even, but Porthos couldn’t figure out why he’d even say that. Of everyone there, d’Artagnan knew exactly how Athos was feeling.

Athos spun, glaring at him. "How dare you lecture me on the needs of my tenants? You abandoned yours!"

d'Artagnan didn't flinch. "I made sure they had a judge, and protection. I made sure they were provided for. And when they write to me, I _answer._ "

"Oh? And how are they doing, since LaBarge's attacks?"

"Better. They're almost self supporting again." He smiled bitterly at Athos' confusion. "Where do you _think_ my wages go, Athos? I certainly don't drink them away."

Athos frowned. "You're supporting your tenants?"

"They're my tenants; I have a duty." Eyeing him, he added, "My father raised me to honour my responsibilities."

Porthos stepped between them. “Right. You,” to d’Artagnan, “turn around and walk over there.” He pointed in a random direction. d’Artagnan glared at him, but he turned and walked.

Porthos looked back at Athos. “He’s been worried about you.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Athos agreed flatly.

“He’s not wrong,” Aramis said from where he was still sitting. Athos turned to glare at him, and he shrugged. “People like this have no protection but that which their lord gives them.”

“I gave this up a long time ago.”

“A shame no one seems to have told them that.”

Athos turned and stalked away - not towards d’Artagnan, Porthos was relieved to note, but away, out of the village and into the trees. He was quickly lost to view.

 

d’Artagnan focused on steering the cart, ignoring Athos as much as he could. Athos’ emotions were swirling around, making him dizzy when he tried to untangle them. It was easier to ignore his feelings and let him stew.

They reached the house. d’Artagnan glanced curiously at the windows as Athos directed him around to the cellar door. “You know there’s someone in there?”

“Yes. Ignore her.” Athos unlocked the door, leading d’Artagnan down into a stone lined room. “My father kept an armoury here, in case we needed to raise a militia. The weapons are old, but they should function, and the room is dry so the powder should be fine - don’t go back there.”

d’Artagnan stopped mid-step, looking back at him. Athos stepped around him, swinging open a gate to show him a crypt. “A dozen generations of my ancestors. I can’t imagine you’d enjoy it.”

“No,” d’Artagnan agreed, going back to the boxes of pistols. “I wouldn’t. Thank you.”

Athos busied himself for a moment moving the barrels of powder. “I didn’t leave them completely on their own, you know.”

“Oh?”

“I appointed an overseer. Someone who could act in my name. I opened letters from him. He stopped writing last winter. Bertrand tells me he died, and the letter telling me so went astray somewhere. I didn’t answer letters from them because I assumed they were trying to circumvent him.”

“They should have stopped paying your rent, that might have got your attention,” d’Artagnan muttered. “It didn’t seem strange that he didn’t write?”

“He wrote only when necessary. We went two years without speaking at one point. He was very competent.”

“I’m sorry I accused you,” d’Artagnan said stiffly.

“You had no reason to think any better of me.”

d’Artagnan flinched. That one hurt, as it was meant to. “I should have. I’m sorry.”

Athos was silent, and suddenly distracted. d’Artagnan followed his gaze to one of the tombs. Shivering a little, he moved close enough to read the name engraved in it.

“Thomas d’Athos,” he read. He’d been twenty seven when he died. “You…”

“I?” Athos repeated. He was suddenly very closed off.

d’Artagnan shook his head. “Nothing. My apologies. I’ll start loading these if you want a few moments.”

“Anything I had to say to my brother was said a long time ago.” Athos hefted the barrel of powder and turned away, but he was careful about locking the gate behind them. d’Artagnan went out to the cart and said nothing when Athos took several minutes to join him.

 

The villagers were awful. Athos had expected no less. At least they were numerous. Surprise was going to be their weapon here. Hopefully they could convince Renard and his idiot son that Pinon was too much trouble for them to bother about.

At least the villagers, led by Bertrand and a furious Jeanne, were willing to learn and to work. A barricade slowly assembled itself across the edge of the square and the various militias went from ‘abysmal’ to merely ‘unskilled’. Athos lent a hand where it was needed, but mostly he watched, judging their progress, trying to decide who would go where, which skills were suited to what position. He could see Treville doing the same thing.

d’Artagnan came to him late in the evening, absently running a finger along the blade of his _main gauche_. “I might have something that can help,” he said quietly.

“Oh?” Athos made a _go on_ gesture.

“One of the villagers has an Ability. I promised to speak with you first, because they’re very nervous about revealing it. But it can help us, I’m sure of it.”

“What sort of Ability?”

“I don’t know if it has a name. I’ve never heard of it before. But they can create explosions, eruptions, just below the surface of the ground.” d’Artagnan was grinning, eyes bright. “Probably not enough to kill a man unless he lands wrong, but enough to hurt him, to distract them and throw them off.”

Athos nodded, thinking quickly. “Bury a couple of barrels on their most likely approaches. Make sure you’re seen doing it. Aramis will fire at them, your villager can create the explosions. Everyone will assume there was gunpowder in the barrels and there won’t be any repercussions.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan said. “I’ll take care of it now.”

“d’Artagnan? Put a little actual gunpowder out there. Let’s not rely too heavily on one person who may be injured before we need them.”

d’Artagnan nodded, hurrying off. Athos saw Porthos join him, shovels in hand, and a couple of the villagers went to help as well. d’Artagnan was explaining, animated and bright, describing the potential explosions with his hands.

Athos went looking for Aramis and found him giving a class on battlefield medicine. He interrupted it when he saw Athos, excusing himself to his pupils and jogging over. “Something wrong?”

“No.” Athos explained the plan to him. “Have d’Artagnan or Porthos point out exactly where the barrels are; we’ll need a good aim.”

Aramis nodded. “And our mystery villager, he or she will know as well?”

“d’Artagnan will take care of that part, and they’ll know to watch you for the timing.”

Aramis nodded. “A sound plan, and hopefully one that will throw off Renard and his men.”

“I hope so. We can’t defeat them; all we can do is be so much trouble that it’s not worth their time trying any more.”

Aramis grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “If there’s one thing we’re good at, my friend, it’s causing trouble.”

Athos nodded, heading back to work. There was still plenty to do.

 

The first explosion almost took out a section of the barricade. Aramis turned to glare at d’Artagnan, who shrugged apologetically and motioned him to the next barrel. Whichever villager was helping them - Aramis couldn’t pick out anyone obviously doing it, but he couldn’t see the whole barricade from where he was perched - had good timing; Aramis fired and the next barrel immediately went up, catching a wave of Renard’s men with it. He couldn’t have too many left, Aramis thought, passing the gun to the nearest woman and receiving a loaded one in exchange.

“Athos!” Edmond howled from out on the field. Aramis put up his gun - the villager must have seen him, because nothing else exploded - and watched as Athos vaulted the barricade and went to face him.

He missed the woman until she was almost at them, gun leveled. He cursed softly, aiming but not firing. He couldn’t hear what they were saying from here, but Athos didn’t seem especially worried.

The ground under the woman jumped as she pulled the trigger. Her shot went wide of Athos, catching Edmond in the side. Athos disengaged, pulling back to watch as Edmond writhed in the dirt.

Aramis was too far away to feel anything. There was no compulsion.

He vaulted the barricade anyway, but Athos gestured him back. The fighting had trailed off, Renard’s men watching in silence, d’Artagnan and Porthos withdrawing towards the barricade. The woman had vanished somewhere.

Aramis caught d’Artagnan’s eye. “Is she dangerous?”

“Only to Athos,” he said absently, head tilted towards the centre of the field.

“You shielding?” Porthos demanded. “Edmond’s about to go.”

“Yes.”

Aramis watched the three men on the field. Even from here, he could see the moment Edmond died. Athos was tense, waiting for Renard’s response.

The older man straightened, said something very clear that Athos recoiled from, and turned away. Two of his men scuttled in to take Edmond’s body; Athos stepped away, letting them do it.

Aramis went to join him, glaring at the soldier who tried to bull past him. “Athos?”

“Baron Renard concedes Pinon to me,” Athos said flatly. “He will not attack again.”

“Is that all he said?”

Athos turned away. “We should get the barricade taken down. Do we need to keep you away from the wounded?”

“d’Artagnan will tell me.”

“No, he won’t. Do we need to keep you away from the wounded?”

Aramis sighed, turning to the practicalities. He could deal with whatever this was later.

 

“I don’t know.” d’Artagnan wasn’t looking at them, watching Athos instead, one hand worrying his rosary beads.

“It hurt him,”Aramis pointed out.

“I’m aware,” d’Artagnan agreed sharply. “But that’s all I can tell you. It shamed him, and he’s trying very hard not to feel that shame.”

Porthos caught Aramis’ eye when he went to ask again. “If he wants us to know, he’ll tell us. We don’t go prying, you know that.” Aramis subsided with a huff and Porthos tapped d’Artagnan’s shoulder lightly. “Don’t worry about it. How are you doing?”

“I’m all right. Blocking most of it.”

“How long can you do that?” Aramis asked, diverted just as Porthos had meant him to be.

“Another day at least. Long enough for us to start back home.” He smiled faintly. “We passed that lake on the way here…”

Porthos left them trying to work out how to get Athos to stop there on the way back and headed through the village. The barricade was mostly down; he moved a few barrels for an older woman, and held a piece of fencing in place while a child tied it to the next part. He didn’t stop, though; he was looking for Athos.

He found him, of course, in the tiny village churchyard, finishing up filling in one of the new graves. Treville was leaning against the fence, taking a break; Porthos stepped past him, stopping beside Athos. “Need a hand?”

“No.”

“Need a break?”

“No.” Athos was flushed, sweating, and the handle of the spade was stained where he was gripping it. Porthos caught his wrist, turning it over to reveal burst and rising blisters.

“I’m getting Aramis.”

“I don’t need Aramis.”

“Whatever you think you’ve done,” Porthos said very precisely, “this is not the way to redeem yourself. Stop digging. I’m going for Aramis.”

He didn’t go anywhere, not wanting to leave Athos alone; a child walking past was sent to fetch Aramis and Porthos went back to Athos, taking the spade away from him. “Gonna tell me?”

“No.” Athos’ gaze was focused past him.

“If it’s worth anything, d’Artagnan’s not saying either. He says he can’t tell.”

Athos’ gaze caught on his for a moment before drifting past again. Porthos left it at that, waiting until Aramis arrived to go and look for something to drink. He ended up with mead - the only alcoholic substance left in the village, after Aramis’ field hospital was done - and brought it back along with a hunk of bread and cheese. Aramis made himself scarce and Athos ate and drank under Porthos’ watch.

“Now may I go back to work?” he asked, over polite.

“Depends. You planning on ripping up your hands again?”

“Porthos -”

Porthos dropped to a crouch beside him. “He said something made you ashamed? This isn’t the way to work it out. Hurting yourself won’t prove anything.”

“He said that my parents would - that they lost the wrong son.” Athos held his gaze, watching it sink in.

Porthos thought very, very quickly. “I didn’t know Thomas; I can’t argue that one. But you are a good man, Athos. You proved that here today. Your parents are not disappointed in you.”

“I’m giving away my inheritance.”

“You’re giving away dirt. Letting these people have some control of their lives, teaching them to take charge, that’s not such a bad thing. Besides, it’s your inheritance. Should be your choice what to do with it.”

“Anne told d’Artagnan that Thomas attacked her. That that’s why she killed him.”

“You believe that?”

He shook his head restlessly. “She made no such claim at the time. Nor ever in my presence. And Thomas - he was a gentle soul. He loved her like a sister. He would never have harmed her.”

“What I’ve heard of your wife, she only hits truth about half the time, yeah?”

Athos snorted. “Maybe less.”

“And she wanted d’Artagnan to do something for her, and it’s not hard to know which strings to pull in him. If you think Thomas wouldn’t - then he didn’t. Don’t let her take him from you again.”

“She is the only person in the world who knows the truth,” Athos said quietly.

“Let her keep it. What does it matter? You know Thomas. She can’t change that.”

Athos smiled faintly. “You are a wise man, my friend.”

“S’what I keep telling people, but does anyone ever listen?” He pulled the spade back when Athos reached for it. “I’ve got this. You go do something less physical for a bit. There’s got to be arrangements for you to make, yet.”

“Yes,” Athos said with a sigh. “There are arrangements to make.”

“Go make ‘em, then. I’ll take care of this.” He started digging, just to prove it.

Athos hesitated a moment longer, but eventually he headed back towards the village. Porthos concentrated on his work. This would need to be finished before they could leave.


	7. Through a Glass, Darkly

“I can't help being nervous,” Constance murmured, holding d’Artagnan’s arm.

“There's nothing to be scared of,” he assured her.

Constance rolled her eyes, but the promise made her feel better. d’Artagnan smiled, keeping up the chatter to keep her from dwelling, but now that she’d brought it up he cast his attention ahead, to the people inside the building they were approaching. Excitement, nervousness; one person was desperate for things to start, another desperate for them not to. Nothing unusual, nothing to worry about. He turned his attention back to Constance.

Half an hour later, he watched in horror as Marmion pushed Aramis out a second story window.

Porthos was shouting d’Artagnan’s name as the guards tried to push him out. d’Artagnan closed his eyes briefly, trying to focus past the terror and horror and grief filling the room.

His eyes snapped open, and he caught Porthos’ gaze, shaking his head. Porthos relaxed a little, allowing himself to be hustled away on Rochefort’s heels.

Constance was terrified and trying very hard not to show it. d’Artagnan smiled reassuringly, stepping closer to her as their guard finished tying her hands and moved away. “We’ll get out of this,” he said quietly. “I promise. Trust me?”

She nodded quickly, but her terror wasn’t diminishing. d’Artagnan turned, half shielding her from the room, to watch Marmion. Tied or not, Constance or not, if he tried to touch the royal family d’Artagnan would have to intervene.

Milady deliberately caught his eye from across the room before she turned to leave. d’Artagnan frowned, trying to untangle the emotions she was deliberately throwing at him; relief, and something about being protected and safe...he couldn’t get it, and then she was gone. He wondered idly whether her coin had really come up heads, or if she’d just nudged Marmion into declaring her free anyway.

The first man’s death answered one question at least. Marmion killed him and felt only satisfaction. There was no bloodthirstiness, no desire to cause pain; nothing that d’Artagnan should have picked up on. Nothing that might have given him a warning.

Aramis was up and moving, if in some pain. d’Artagnan pressed a little closer to Constance. “I think Milady’s gone for help,” he murmured to her. “Hold on a little longer, Constance.”

“That one?” Constance smiled bitterly. “We’ll never see her again, and good riddance.” She looked past him; d’Artagnan didn’t turn. “The queen is so frightened,” she whispered.

“I know. Just hold tight a little. We’ll get out of here.”

She studied him. “You really believe that?”

“I really do. Athos isn’t here, remember. As soon as he realises something is wrong, he’ll come. And we don’t know if all Rochefort’s men were killed; one of them might have gotten away.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Marmion demanded.

“We’re deciding what to do when you’re dead and we’ve walked out of here,” d’Artagnan said evenly. Kowtowing wouldn’t help anything; Marmion would kill them or not according to the rules of his twisted game.

The room had gone very, very quiet. d’Artagnan didn’t look away from Marmion.

“And what did you decide?” he asked, genuinely curious.

d’Artagnan shrugged carelessly. “I missed breakfast, so I’m thinking something to eat.”

Louis was spluttering in the background. d’Artagnan ignored him.

Marmion smiled. “I like this one,” he announced. Turning towards Louis, he added “Are all your guards like him?”

“No. No, he’s quite unique.”

“Shall we flip for his life?” Marmion suggested. “What do you think, heads or tails?”

“Don’t answer him,” d’Artagnan said quickly.

Marmion turned back to him, scowling. “That’s not your decision.”

“I’m not leaving, even if that thing tells me to. You’d have to kill me, and what would that do to Fate? If I should have lived but I died instead?”

“Fate does not care for any of us,” Marmion said distantly. Brightening up suddenly, he turned to Louis. “You don’t want to flip for his life? You’re quite sure?” Louis nodded numbly. “Very well. Next game, then. I think you’ll want to play this one.”

d’Artagnan shouted when one of the guards grabbed the queen’s shoulders, but there were other guards, snatching at Marguerite, forcing the other courtiers to their feet. Louis was terrified, horrified, but untouched, left alone as the others were spirited out.

Constance pressed against d’Artagnan. He returned the pressure as best he could, tracking the two groups. Everyone was afraid, but none of them had been harmed, and they were stationary somewhere in the building.

“Now.” Marmion sat down beside Louis, watching him carefully. “Time to make a decision, your majesty. Shall I send this man -” He waved at one of the guards, who casually unsheathed his sword. “- into room one, or room two?”

Louis blinked at him, barely following the words. “What is in these rooms?”

“In one of them is your wife, your son, and his governess. In the other, your three loyal courtiers. Choose quickly, or he will visit both rooms.”

“I - I can’t - how can I…”

“Choose _quickly_ ,” Marmion repeated.

d’Artagnan struggled, trying to focus. Had Marmion felt something when he described the rooms? Was he hoping Louis would choose one way or the other? He was definitely anticipating _something…_

He shifted, caught Louis’ eye, and mouthed ‘ _one_ ’ over and over until Louis nodded.

“Have you decided?” Marmion asked patiently.

“God forgive me,” Louis breathed. “One.”

Marmion smiled, nodding to the guard. d’Artagnan blinked as he suddenly realised what was going on, but there was no way to explain it to Louis. He held onto it tightly.

He paid only enough attention to know that Marmion had not been lying before pulling up a shield. He could not afford to be pulled away right now, slim as the risk was.

“d’Artagnan,” Constance whispered, “are you all right? You’re so pale.”

“I’m fine.” He squeezed her joined hands gently. “Just…” He tilted his head to indicate the room.

Constance nodded, watching the king. He’d pulled in on himself, literally huddled into a ball in his chair. “Which room do you think he went into?”

d’Artagnan shrugged. “I suppose we’ll find out soon.”

“He surely wouldn’t kill the Dauphin? He’s just a babe…”

“I hope not.”

Relief, strangely doubled, washed through him. He shook his head absently to focus, tracing it back to the queen and Aramis. Good; one less thing to worry about.

The guard came back, absently stripping blood from his blade. Louis stared at him, wide eyed. “Who did you kill. Who - who did you _kill?_ ”

Marmion only smirked. d’Artagnan grimaced. “Don’t torture him!”

Another smirk, but Marmion deigned to say “Your wife and child are safe. You have sacrificed your loyal courtiers.”

Louis buried his head in his arms. d’Artagnan swallowed, taking a step back to lean against the wall.

Something tugged at his attention, a familiar feeling from far away. He frowned, drawing it up for a better look. He almost smiled before he caught himself; that particular blend of protectiveness and righteous fury could only be one person. And now that he knew where to look, he could sense others around Athos. Reinforcements were coming.

Constance’s fear spiked. d’Artagnan dragged his attention back from the comfort of Athos’ emotions just in time to elbow the guard who was trying to separate them. The guard doubled over, but another came from behind d’Artagnan, immobilising him for long enough for Constance to be dragged away some distance.

“Time to play for her life,” Marmion told Louis. “Choose heads or tails, she lives or she dies.”

“She hasn’t done anything to you!” d’Artagnan protested, struggling against his guard.

“My wife and children had never harmed anyone,” Marmion said sharply. “Why should she live and they die?”

“Why _not?_ That is fate too, isn’t it?”

Marmion turned back to Louis. “Choose, your majesty. Or refuse, and I will kill her anyway.”

“Don’t,” d’Artagnan said, eyes on Louis. Marmion would do it this time; he would shoot Constance if the coin came up wrong. “Don’t call. Don’t let him do this.”

Louis stared at them, disturbingly blank both to the eye and to d’Artagnan’s senses. “Tails.”

“No!” d’Artagnan surged against his guard, but he couldn’t get loose.

Marmion flipped the coin.

d’Artagnan felt the surge of pleasure and howled, trying to buck free again.

Marmion leaned over conscientiously, showing Louis the coin. There was a faint flicker of grief, quickly smothered under the heavy nothingness. Marmion smiled, drawing his pistol and aiming it at Constance.

Marion’s servant was nerving himself up to intervene, horrified at the lengths his master was going to, but he wasn’t there yet.

“Look me in the eyes.” Constance’s voice shook, but she stood straight without flinching. “Look me in the eye and think of your wife. Then shoot me, if you still want to.”

“No!” d’Artagnan jerked hard enough to break free, stumbling across get between them. “No,” he said again. Where - Aramis was nearby, how could - “Shoot me instead. That will satisfy the game, won’t it? The coin demands a life. Take mine.”

“Interesting,” Marmion murmured thoughtfully.

Constance was protesting. d’Artagnan ignored it, staying between them.

“Here is my offer,” Marmion announced. “You may walk out of here right now, a free man. But she will die. Or stay, and die for her.”

“Stay,” d’Artagnan said immediately.

“d’Artagnan -” Constance was crying. “Go, get out of here, get help…”

“No.”

“ _Please_ -”

“No.” He turned enough to look at her. “I can’t leave you here to die. I can’t do it, Constance.” He looked back at Marmion. “She will be allowed to leave unharmed?”

“One life for another,” Marmion agreed.

d’Artagnan nodded, lifting his chin. “Do it.”

The gun fired.

Someone fell heavily against d’Artagnan, gasping. d’Artagnan went down under the unexpected weight, managing to catch the servant before he hit the ground. Constance gasped, taking a couple of steps back; Marmion fell to his knees beside them. “Robert…?”

Robert smiled shakily. “Is the coin happy now, brother?”

He was dead before Marmion could answer. Marmion stared at him for several moments before pushing slowly to his feet. One of the guards moved in to take Robert’s body from d’Artagnan.

Marmion rubbed at his face. “Time to end this,” he said, mostly to himself.

“Marmion,” d’Artagnan said, climbing to his feet.

“Another sacrifice?” Marmion asked disinterestedly. “Your life for your king’s?”

“No.” Marmion wouldn’t accept that anyway, not now. “Yours. Play by your own rules. Flip the coin and we all leave or we all die.”

“d’Artagnan!” Louis protested. “What are you doing?”

“Fate,” Marmion murmured. He was intrigued, he - “Very well. But if you lose, you will personally execute your king.”

d’Artagnan nodded agreement. He’d think of something if it came up. “Tails.”

“d’Artagnan, I forbid this!” Louis snapped.

“The call has been made,” Marmion told him. “Let us see if Fate thinks you are worth saving.”

d’Artagnan was suddenly intensely aware of Milady, as though she were standing right next to him. Taking the hint, he pulled Constance back a step or two, out of the line of fire of the doors.

Marmion threw the coin.

The doors burst inwards.

d’Artagnan jumped the nearest guard, managing to cut the ties around his wrists after a struggle. He freed Constance, pushing her behind a bench and ordered her to stay. The fight was almost over when he looked around; Louis was shouting for Marmion’s head, Rochefort was nowhere in sight, and the others were rounding up Marmion’s men.

d’Artagnan waited until they were done to roughly hug Aramis. He’d known the other man was alive, but seeing him made it more real.

“Are you all right?” Aramis asked, gaze flickering over him quickly.

“Bruises,” he said dismissively. “Nothing else - oh…”

“What?” Aramis demanded.

“Marmion’s dead,” he murmured. “Rochefort caught up to him.”

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer person,” Aramis said briskly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine,” he insisted at Aramis’ look. “I’m not going to fall.”

“The traitor Marmion is dead!” Rochefort declared from the door.

“Rochefort, you are a hero,” Louis said in relief. “Your prompt arrival saved me, while you -” He turned on d’Artagnan. “- encouraged that madman to gamble with my life.”

“I had to stall him, sire,” d’Artagnan protested. “It's all I could think of.”

Louis scowled. “I admit you played a brave part, but it was a very dangerous game. Rochefort, come. We must discuss how I can be better protected."

"Your majesty, a moment?" d'Artagnan said quickly.

"I wish to see my wife and son, d'Artagnan."

"I know, your majesty, this will only take a moment."

"One moment only," Louis snapped, waving Rochefort to continue without him. Aramis hung back, to stay behind them without listening; Athos was firmly on Louis' other side, though d'Artagnan hadn't expected him to be anywhere else.

"I know you're angry with me, your majesty, and I'm sorry for that," he said quietly. "But you should know. When you were choosing the room? Marmion was never going to kill the queen then. It was always going to be the other room."

Louis stared at him. "What?"

"It was too early in the game," d'Artagnan explained. "If you'd lost the queen and the dauphin then, the – it wouldn't have been fun any more. Your courtiers were doomed but your family was always safe."

"But – you told me to say 'one'! Why do that if it didn't matter? If you weren't saving the queen and the dauphin?"

d'Artagnan smiled bitterly. "It was not by your choice that your courtiers were killed, your majesty."

Louis was still staring at him. "You did that."

d'Artagnan inclined his head. "I am a Musketeer, your majesty, I protect you in every way I can."

"Your majesty?" Rochefort called from the end of the corridor.

Louis studied d'Artagnan for a moment longer before turning away. Aramis passed them, glancing curiously at them as he followed the king.

"d'Artagnan," Athos murmured.

"Marmion put the queen, the dauphin and Marguerite in one room, and those three courtiers in another, and made the king decide which room to send the man with the sword into without knowing who was where."

"So you decided?"

"The guilt of that decision would have destroyed him," d'Artagnan hissed. "I am a soldier, I am _his_ soldier, and I can deal with it. That's what I'm _here_ for."

Athos studied him. “Will it destroy you?”

“They were dead as soon as they arrived here. There was no way to save them.”

“d’Artagnan…”

“We should go.” He turned away, following the others outside.

Athos passed him as he wandered up the slope towards the carriage and horses. He wasn’t really eager to spend any more time in company, but it couldn’t be avoided; they had to head back to the city, and Louis wasn’t likely to dismiss any of them until they got there.

Constance came flying down the slope at him; d’Artagnan braced himself, catching her as she reached him. She kissed him quickly.

“I love you.”

“I know,” he agreed.

“I don't care what people think. I don't care what they say. This is my life and I want to spend the rest of it with you.”

He considered for a moment, linking his hands behind her back. “Do I get a say in this?”

Constance laughed, kissing him again, and for a moment everything was perfect.

 

Athos hadn’t expected to see d’Artagnan for a while, but he was sitting at the table in the courtyard, playing idly with a cup. Athos sat opposite him, watching.

“How’s Aramis?” d’Artagnan sounded a little distant.

“He’ll be fine after some rest.” d’Artagnan nodded, and kept nodding until Athos touched his arm to draw his attention. “How are you?”

“I’m on the way to Rue Plummet.” The church, Athos thought. He hadn’t been aware that d’Artagnan was still visiting it. “I wanted to check in, first.”

Athos watched him until he sighed. “I think something is wrong with Louis.”

“Wrong with him?”

“There’s something in his mind. Something that isn’t him.” He shook his head at Athos’ look. “I can’t explain it any better than that, I’m not a mind reader, I can’t see it properly. I just know it’s there, and it shouldn’t be.”

“Someone has done this to him?”

“Yes. I think. I’ve never felt anything like it before, but - it doesn’t feel right. But the only reason I could tell was his mask was down. Once we were back at the carriages, it was hidden again. I’d have to go poking to find it, and I might set something off that I shouldn’t.”

“I see,” Athos murmured. “Perhaps his uncharacteristic behaviour is not truly his fault, then.”

“Maybe not,” d’Artagnan agreed, rising to his feet. “Athos, I know it’s been a long day, but would you walk with me to Rue Plummet?”

“Of course. Let me tell Porthos where we’re going.”

d’Artagnan was silent as they walked. Athos escorted him all the way into the cell, watching him settle on the pallet.

“This is fine,” d’Artagnan told him. “I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

“Very well.” He started to leave, hesitated. “Would you like me to stay?”

d’Artagnan smiled faintly. “It wouldn’t help. But thank you.”

Athos nodded, reluctantly turning away and pulling the door closed. He’d go back and sit with Aramis. Maybe he could be useful there.

 

 

 

If he hadn’t been searching, trying to find what the fake Louise had done, if he hadn’t been so open, so without shields…

He dropped to his knees beside Bonacieux, trying to stem the bleeding, casting his senses desperately outwards. Aramis was coming, only seconds away. Bonacieux only had to hang on another moment.

Bonacieux’s hand caught his wrist. d'Artagnan felt the tug too late to do anything about it; senses wide open, he was helpless to stop himself tumbling into the dark place as Bonacieux died.


	8. A Marriage of Inconvenience, pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CutePoison - ::waves at chapter::

Aramis knelt beside Bonacieux as d'Artagnan collapsed backwards, away from them. A look told him he was too late; he pressed two fingers to his neck anyway, shaking his head and tugging his hat off. “What does – d'Artagnan!”

He had to go around Bonacieux’s body, and Porthos got to d'Artagnan ahead of him. d'Artagnan was flat on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling above them; he didn’t react to touch, or voices, or movement when they tried that. Aramis cupped the back of his neck, but there was nothing wrong. d'Artagnan was simply unresponsive.

“Aramis,” Porthos murmured. Aramis glanced up, and Porthos tipped his head towards Bonacieux. “He’s dead.”

“Yes,” Aramis agreed, and then drew in a horrified breath as he realised what Porthos meant. “Oh, d'Artagnan.”

“You think?”

“I can’t think of anything else.”

“Aramis,” Athos said quietly.

Aramis glanced back at d'Artagnan, lying boneless in Athos’ arms. “Bonacieux’s dead.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“He’s _just_ dead, Athos. He _just_ died. d'Artagnan must have been here.”

Athos looked down at him, frowning. “This is the dark place?”

“I think so. There’s nothing _wrong_ with him. He must not have been shielding.”

“How do we help him?” Porthos asked.

Aramis shook his head. “He wakes on his own, as I understand it. There’s nothing I can do,” he added to Porthos’ look. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“Let’s get him out of here, anyway,” Athos said. Porthos leaned forward, taking d'Artagnan’s weight so Athos could get to his feet.

Aramis leaned across and closed d'Artagnan’s eyes.

 

_d’Artagnan realises it the moment he lays eyes on the fake princess. The difference screams at him._

_The block around her mind has shattered._

_Pressure, maybe, as she tried to complete her mission while the Musketeers unknowingly drew closer at every step; or, simpler, too long since the block had been put into place. They aren’t meant to last forever, after all, and he has no idea how long she’s been carrying it._

_The impact of her mind is so strong that it takes him a moment to sort through it and realise. He’s not at all familiar with the sense of her, of course, but he knows the sense of a disintegrating mind. Louise is falling into insanity._

_He hurries after her. Maybe they can find out who hired her before she forgets._

 

“Captain Treville’s going to be fine,” Constance called as they came into the yard. Porthos nodded absently, moving to steady d'Artagnan so Athos could dismount. “What’s happened?” Constance demanded. “What’s wrong with him?”

Porthos stepped back to let Athos past; Aramis hesitated, but Porthos shook his head and Aramis hurried after them. Porthos caught Constance’s arm when she went to follow. “Wait. Got to talk to you first.”

“Is he hurt?” Constance asked.

Porthos drew her to one side, out of the way of the stable boys. “Yes,” he said softly. “He’s hurt. He got hurt in the palace, trying…here, sit down.”

“Why?” she asked warily, letting him usher her to the bench. “Trying to do what?”

“I’m sorry,” Porthos murmured. “Your husband was there. He got hurt somehow, we don’t know exactly what happened. d'Artagnan was hurt trying to save his life.”

Constance stared at him for a long time. “Trying,” she repeated eventually, in a voice so unlike her own Porthos wouldn’t have recognised her if he wasn’t looking at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Bonacieux’s dead.”

Constance stood, fussing at her skirts. “I should go.”

“Wait.”

“No, I should go.”

“Constance,” Porthos said, and she hesitated. He so rarely used her name. “d'Artagnan tried to save his life. I promise you.”

“I’m sure he did,” Constance agreed distantly. “I need to go.”

“Let me walk you,” Porthos said quickly. “I’ll just tell Athos, all right? Wait for me.”

“Porthos,” she called after him. “Is d'Artagnan all right?”

Porthos considered for a moment. “He will be. Wait right here for me, all right? I’ll be back in a minute.” She nodded and he hurried for the stairs. 

 

_d’Artagnan’s strongest feelings are usually someone else’s; his own emotions are relatively subdued, usually, easier to control, lost under everything else happening in his head. When he feels the murderous rage sweep over him, he automatically looks for the source before realising it’s his own._

_Bonacieux has struck Constance._

_It was the man’s one good point; however cruel he was to Constance, he’d never hit her, nor touched her in any way she objected to. Constance had promised him that early on, and he believed her. But now her lip is swollen and bloody and her skin bruised, and he can’t bear it, can’t bear seeing it there and knowing that it’s because of him, because of them. Surely something that feels so right can’t be deserving of something like this?_

_Constance kisses him - he feels the flinch, the stab of pain, but pretends he doesn’t for her sake - and leaves, promising she’s all right._

_He doesn’t believe her this time._

 

Athos lowered d'Artagnan carefully onto his bed, watching for a moment before carefully shifting him over to lie more comfortably. “How long will this take?”

Aramis shrugged, sitting briefly to check d'Artagnan. “I don’t know.”

“Aramis…”

“I don’t _know_ , Athos. It depends on how quickly he can find his way back. Two days the first time. I know of one other time but I don’t know how long he was unconscious that time.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“He doesn’t like to tell.” Aramis brushed a strand of hair from d'Artagnan’s forehead. “We should talk to him.”

“Talk to him?”

“He’s lost alone in the dark, Athos. Let’s not leave him alone out here, too.”

Porthos stepped in, glancing briefly at d'Artagnan. “Constance wants to go back to the palace. You don’t need me, I’ll go with her.”

“Go,” Athos agreed. “She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“Aramis?”

“Go,” Aramis said quietly. “Stay as long as she needs you.”

Porthos nodded, slipping back out. Aramis stretched, glancing at Athos. “You should check on Captain Treville. I’ll stay with d'Artagnan.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Bring back something to eat when you’re coming, but don’t hurry.”

“I won’t be long.”

“As you like.” Aramis pulled out his rosary and started to pray out loud, in Gascon. Athos listened for a moment before letting himself out.

Treville was sleeping. Athos considered for a moment before turning to leave again.

“Athos.”

He turned back. “Captain Treville.”

“What’s happening?”

“How are you feeling?”

Treville eyed him. “Don’t try that on me. What’s wrong?”

“Bonacieux is dead. And d'Artagnan is –“ He thought for a moment before finally coming up with “- incapacitated.”

“Incapacitated?” Treville repeated.

“Sudden death close to him.” He shook his head at Treville’s look. “Aramis can explain it better than I. All I know is he’s not responding at all. As though he’s asleep, but we can’t wake him.”

“He’s not injured? Ill?”

“Aramis says not.”

"And it's not the same as what happened before? After the slavers?"

"No, sir. This is different."

Treville looked at him sharply, but he didn’t say anything. Athos shifted. “Do you need anything?”

“No. Thank you. Go back to the others.”

“I can send Aramis if you’re in pain.”

“No pain, at the moment.”

“I’m sorry things turned out as they did.” He respected Treville’s insistence on protecting Aramis and the garrison by refusing his help, though he was still keeping him pain and infection free.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll send for him if I need him. Go on, Athos.”

Athos left, heading for the kitchen. He checked in with a couple of the other Musketeers – they were policing themselves, since Louis hadn’t seen fit to replace Treville yet, and it was a point of pride for them that they continue just as efficiently as before – and collected a couple of trays, bringing them back to d'Artagnan’s room. Aramis was still praying, but he nodded at Athos’ entrance. Athos settled carefully on the room’s one chair, laid the trays aside, and joined in as best he could with the prayers.

 

_Treville rolls away from Aramis’ touch, though the movement has to cost him dearly. “No!” he gasps._

_“Captain?” Athos says, one hand on Aramis’ arm to keep him back._

_“Too many people saw me. You can’t, Aramis. You know the rules.”_

_“I can’t not, captain. You know that.”_

_Lemay bustles in, bag in hand and Constance in tow. Aramis steps back with a defeated sigh. He manages to talk with Lemay, arms folded tightly over his chest, but he begs off touching Treville - “My hands aren’t very steady, Professor, do you think you can…?” - and watches Lemay’s treatment avidly. Taking notes, no doubt, for times like this when he can’t help in his own way._

_Athos stays close by, supporting him quietly._

 

Porthos left Constance in the queen’s care and went back to the garrison. Aramis was absent when he slipped into d'Artagnan’s room; Athos was reading quietly from a book, nothing Porthos recognised. He lowered it as Porthos closed the door. “How is Madame Bonacieux?”

“In mourning. I left her in the queen’s company. I was assured that she would be taken care of. How’s the boy?”

“No change. Aramis says we should talk to him.”

“Can he hear us?”

“No idea. But if he can…” Athos shrugged.

Porthos leaned over to pick up the book, scanning the title. “Military history? This is your choice?”

“It seemed a better choice than poetry.” Catching Porthos’ look, he added, “Aramis was praying. I sent him to get some rest.”

Porthos studied d'Artagnan. “It bothers him?”

“As it bothers us all, I think. He insists d'Artagnan isn’t injured or ill; there can’t be anything for him to pick up.”

“Just the _wrong._ ” Porthos sighed, tossing the book back. “Go get some rest. I’ll sit a while.”

“Talk to him.”

“Yeah.”

Athos left his book behind, but Porthos didn’t touch it. He liked military history well enough, but reading about it was dry at the best of times; he usually preferred to act it out. He ended up leaning against the window, describing the training he could see going on below, critiquing the recruits. It was something d'Artagnan usually enjoyed, always eager to learn any way he could.

Aramis arrived after a while. He didn’t seem surprised to see Porthos instead of Athos, just settled on the side of the bed to check d'Artagnan.

“We need to feed him,” he said with a sigh. “Can you see if there’s any broth in the kitchen? We should be able to get him to take that.”

“Yeah. ‘Course.” Porthos slipped out, heading down to the kitchen. There were two helpings of broth left and he claimed both, carrying them back upstairs. Aramis had slipped d'Artagnan’s tunic off and was washing him down, talking quietly, describing everything he was doing.

“You might have to do that again when we’re done,” Porthos pointed out.

“Then I’ll do it again. As often as I need to.”

Porthos considered him for a moment. “This isn’t your fault, you know.” Aramis didn’t answer, concentrating intently on the cloth in his hands. Porthos sighed, taking it away from him. “Aramis. This isn’t _anyone’s_ fault.”

“Hmm. Was there broth?”

Porthos sighed again. “Yeah. I’ll prop him up. You pour.”

 

_d’Artagnan’s been acting oddly since they met Princess Louise and her footman, paying them both extra attention and watching them whenever he’s not actively doing something else. Aramis has been watching, and now he thinks he knows what’s happening._

_He contrives to have himself and d’Artagnan sent to gather wood when they stop. d’Artagnan, presumably aware that Aramis wants to talk to him, goes without complaint._

_“You can’t sense her, can you.”_

_He shakes his head slowly. “I can’t sense either of them, but for different reasons.”_

_Aramis frowns. “Neither of them? What kind of difference?”_

_d’Artagnan turns away, picking up a couple of sticks and fussing with them. Aramis lets him do it without pushing. He recognises this behaviour, too._

_“Francesco has a natural block. Some people just do; it’s not an Ability, not anything he’s doing. He just does.”_

_“And the princess?”_

_“That one’s like Rochefort. It’s been put in her mind by someone else.”_

_Aramis studies him. “You weren’t sure before, d’Artagnan.”_

_“Because in isolation, it’s difficult to tell the difference. When I have both right there, it’s very obvious. Louise has been blocked, by someone else. It’s not something she’s done herself.”_

_“You’re absolutely sure?”_

_“Absolutely.”_

_Aramis nods thoughtfully. “I’ll talk to Athos. What do you need?”_

_“Nothing. It’s a good chance to brush up on keeping aware of what’s going on around me. I probably rely too much on my Ability for that.”_

_“And if that changes?”_

_d’Artagnan smiles. “If it does, you’ll be the first to know, Aramis. I promise.”_

 

On the third day, Constance came to the garrison. Porthos met her in the courtyard, smiling sadly at the black mourning clothes. “Madame.”

“I came to see d'Artagnan.”

Porthos shook his head. “He hasn’t woken up yet.”

“What?”

“We meant to be at the funeral. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, that’s – it’s fine. What’s wrong with him?”

Porthos shrugged. “Aramis says he’ll wake. He needs time.”

“But what happened?”

“You know me and details. He was hurt; he’ll be all right.”

Someone shouted inside; Porthos turned, looking over his shoulder. “Damn. Stay here, Constance, I’ll be right back.”

“What is it?” Constance called after him, but he didn’t look around. Constance waited a handful of heartbeats before following him to the door of the Musketeer’s refectory.

“You are his medic, you’re his _confessor!”_ Athos was snarling. “Why don’t you know about this?”

“You’re his mentor!” Aramis snapped. “You knew about this, why didn't _you_ ask him!”

“What good would it do, you know I don’t understand it the way you do!”

“Oi!” Porthos shouted. Neither paid him any attention; Aramis was sitting on one of the benches, back to the door, and Athos was pacing under the windows. Constance leaned to one side, just enough to see around Porthos.

“He doesn’t talk about this. You know that.” Aramis’ shoulders were tense and his hands were pressed against his forehead. “I could have asked all I wanted. He wouldn’t have told me. It scares him.”

“So you didn’t bother trying?”

“It _scares_ him!”

“Good, at least he’ll die happy!”

“He’s _not going to die!”_

_“You don’t know that!”_

Porthos whistled piercingly. Constance flinched, backing into the door and rattling it in the frame. “How is this helping?” he demanded, glaring at the men. “What are you doing?”

“He –“

“ _None_ of us knew, Athos,” Porthos said firmly, cutting him off. “It’s not on Aramis to know any more than it is the rest of us. None of us asked. Now _stop_ shouting at each other.” He studied them for a moment before adding “I’m glad you had the sense not to do this in front of him, but who’s up there with him while you two are fighting each other?”

Aramis pushed to his feet, stepping past Constance without looking at her. She hovered, undecided, long enough to hear Porthos snap “He already thinks this is his fault!” before chasing Aramis. Whatever Athos’ problem was, Porthos would sort him out. She didn’t trust them to do the same for Aramis.

Aramis was halfway up the stairs to the barracks. Constance called after him to stop him, hurrying up the stairs. “Can I see him?”

“He’s not awake, Constance.”

“I know. Please?”

Aramis sighed, gesturing her to follow him. Constance stayed on his heels through the barracks to d'Artagnan’s room; he busied himself opening the window and fussing with something on the sill, letting her approach the bed on her own.

“He doesn’t look injured,” she ventured. Aramis hummed noncommittally; Constance sat carefully on the side of the bed, brushing a strand of hair away. He didn’t look injured, but he was pale and still and looked smaller, somehow. Seeing him so still was disconcerting; she didn’t remember him ever being this motionless before. “He doesn’t have a fever.”

“No,” Aramis agreed, moving to sit on the chair by the head of the bed. “He doesn’t.”

“Porthos said…” Constance closed her eyes, frowning. “He said d'Artagnan was hurt. I thought he meant injured, but – what’s wrong with him, Aramis?”

Aramis shook his head slowly. “I can’t tell you. I _can’t_ ,” he repeated over her objection. “It’s not mine to tell.”

“You knew this might happen to him?”

“I knew it had happened before,” he said, choosing his words with such obvious care she wanted to scream.

“And it scares him?”

“He doesn’t like talking about it. I haven’t pressed. From what he has told me, he should wake soon.”

“Soon,” Constance repeated.

“I don’t know when, exactly.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Aramis didn’t answer; Constance let it hang for a moment before looking away. “I’m sorry. That’s not fair. I shouldn’t expect you to have all the answers.”

“You’d be the only one,” Aramis muttered.

Constance smiled faintly. “Do you want to take a break? I’ll sit with him. I think Porthos still has Athos in the refectory; you could slip out without being seen.” Aramis wavered, clearly torn, and she added, “I’d like to sit with him.”

That did it, as she’d known it would. Aramis bowed gracefully. “Talk to him, if you would.”

“About what?”

“Anything. We’re hoping the sound of our voices will help guide him home.” He smiled at her. “If any of our voices are likely to do it, I suspect it will be yours.”

“How long can he last?” Constance murmured.

“Oh, quite a while yet.” Aramis’ voice was bright, but his eyes were shadowed. “He’s swallowing, so we’ve been able to give him broth and wine. He’s all right for some time yet. Better if he wakes, of course.”

“Of course,” Constance agreed. “Does he need anything now?”

“No. Not yet, and I’ll be back in time.” He squeezed her arm gently, letting himself out and closing the door.

Constance immediately went to the window and pushed it open as wide as she could. “I’ve never liked the smell of a sickroom,” she said conversationally. “Smells like despair after a while. I can’t think it does a body any good.”

Sitting back on the edge of the bed, she brushed his hair back again. “Come back to us, d'Artagnan,” she murmured. “Quick as you like.”


	9. A Marriage of Inconvenience, pt 2

It was completely anti-climactic, in the end. Athos was sleeping, uncomfortably propped in the chair beside d'Artagnan’s bed; he woke at a touch on his arm, and by the time he was fully aware d'Artagnan was asleep again, hands linked firmly and pulled in to his chest. Athos studied him for a moment before settling back down, close enough to maintain the grip.

d'Artagnan woke properly the next morning, squeezing Athos’ hand as he did so. “ ‘Thos?”

“Morning,” Athos murmured. “How do you feel?”

“Tired,” d'Artagnan mumbled. “Where’re we?”

“Your room.”

“Thirsty.”

Athos hesitated. “You’ll have to let go of me.”

d'Artagnan stared at their hands as though he’d never seen them before. “Oh…sorry. Di’nt realise.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

d'Artagnan loosened his grip with obvious effort, watching as Athos retrieved a water skin and came back. “Can you sit up?”

“Nuh uh.” He reached up shakily, twining his fingers in the shoulder of Athos’ jerkin to support himself. “How long?”

Athos glanced at the window. “This is the morning of the fourth day since Bonacieux’s death.”

“Four,” d'Artagnan said numbly, accepting the water skin. He couldn’t quite keep it steady; Athos shifted to sit behind him, one arm wrapping around his shoulders to support the ‘skin.

“Is that longer than usual?”

d'Artagnan avoided answering by drinking; Athos waited patiently, supporting both him and the ‘skin until he pulled away from it again. “Is it longer?” he asked quietly.

“Not – no. Four, before, the second time.”

“Two the first time?”

“Two days,” d'Artagnan said on a sigh. “Tired, Athos.”

“I know. This is important.”

“Later? Please.”

“All right,” Athos agreed reluctantly. “We’ll talk later.”

“Th’others?”

“Fine. Everyone’s fine.”

d'Artagnan was almost asleep again; he fought it long enough to reach for Athos’ arm. “Don’t leave?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be here.”

Porthos came in a little later, noting the change immediately. “What happened?”

“He woke, briefly.” Athos glanced down at him automatically.

“Woke? How is he?”

“Tired and not making much sense, but he recognised me and asked after you.”

“He was back, then?”

“He seemed to be, yes.” He glanced at the window. “I’m on patrol, yes?”

“Yeah. Came to see if you needed anything.”

“Can you stay with d'Artagnan? He seemed uneasy at the thought of being left alone.”

“Yeah. ‘Course.” Porthos stepped aside as Athos carefully disentangled his arm and stood. “Tell Aramis? And Constance, if you see her.”

“Yes.” 

d'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably; Porthos moved to sit next to him, gripping his hand lightly. “He must be blocking,” he muttered.

“Why?”

“He’s never this touch hungry when he can sense us.”

“No,” Athos murmured. “He isn’t. You’ll make sure he’s not alone?”

“I’ll take care of it. Go on before you’re late; we don’t want to make Louis any angrier with us.”

“That wouldn’t be hard,” Athos pointed out, but he left.

Aramis was down in the yard, frantically polishing his pistol. Athos hesitated by the table; Aramis didn’t look up, but he tensed, polishing more quickly.

“d'Artagnan woke,” Athos said quietly. Aramis looked up sharply, and he added, “Only briefly, but he recognised me, he asked about you. He seemed – himself. Porthos is with him now, I have to go on patrol.”

“He woke?”

“Yes.”

Aramis pressed one hand to his eyes. “Awake.”

Athos waited until he looked up, clear eyed. “You said there’d be illness after waking?”

“d'Artagnan said so, yes, but I have no idea what it will entail. How coherent was he?”

“Enough to know he didn’t want the conversation I wanted. Try when he wakes again. Maybe he’ll talk to you.”

Aramis smiled tightly. “I am his confessor.”

Athos closed his eyes for a moment. “That was unfair of me; I apologise.”

Aramis shrugged. “It’s true enough. There are things he goes to you for and things he comes to me for.”

“It was still unfair of me.”

“You’re forgiven, if you need to hear it.”

Athos nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

“Go patrol. We’ll take care of things here.”

Athos nodded again, turning away. “If I see Constance, I’ll tell her. You should be ready for her arrival.”

Aramis smiled wryly. “Thanks for the warning.”

He tipped his hat, smiling, and headed off.

 

Constance couldn’t get away until the afternoon; the queen was an extraordinarily permissive mistress, but Constance did have duties. She headed for the garrison as soon as she could.

Porthos met her in the yard, smiling. “Afternoon, madame.”

“Porthos,” she said politely.

Porthos grinned at her not-quite-concealed impatience. “He’s upstairs. Might even be awake. Want me to walk you up?”

“I know the way. Thank you.” She nodded politely, slipped past him and all but ran up the stairs.

d'Artagnan was asleep, but Aramis assured her he’d wake soon. “He’s been coming and going all day,” he said fondly, twitching the blanket up slightly. “He may not be very coherent, though.”

“He’s alive,” Constance said.

“He is alive,” Aramis agreed. d'Artagnan stirred, rolling towards them, and Aramis smiled. “Speak of the devil,” he said, voice clearly pitched for d'Artagnan to hear.

“Hate you,” d'Artagnan said dreamily, eyes still closed.

“You might wish to see who’s here before you say things like that, my friend,” Aramis told him.

“S’is Constance.” He reached out and Constance took his hand, squeezing gently. “She knows I love her,” he added.

Constance blushed. “Hush, you.”

“Am hushed.” He dragged his eyes open, focusing on her and smiling broadly. Constance found she couldn’t help but return it.

“He’s still a little confused,” Aramis offered. “It’ll clear as he gets better.”

d'Artagnan tugged lightly. Constance let him guide her to sit on the bed; he smiled at her as she fiddled with the blanket. “Missed you.”

“We missed you,” she agreed. “Try not to do that again.”

He let go of her hand, flicking at the end of her sleeve. “Black’s not your colour.”

“d'Artagnan,” Aramis said warningly.

“It’s fine,” Constance told him, looking back at d'Artagnan. “I’m in mourning, d'Artagnan.”

“I know,” he agreed sadly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

He surged upwards suddenly, catching her wrist tightly. Aramis moved quickly to steady her, watching carefully. “I tried to save him,” d'Artagnan said very distinctly.

“I know you did,” she said automatically.

d'Artagnan shook his head, grip tightening. “Constance, I _tried_. I really did.”

“You’re hurting me,” she said as evenly as she could.

Aramis caught d'Artagnan’s wrist, loosening his hold. “Easy, d'Artagnan. – Are you all right, Constance?”

“Yes,” she said, shaken.

Aramis let go of d'Artagnan, glaring warningly at him, and turned to take Constance’s hands in his. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, studying her wrist, running warm fingers over the red mark.

“It’s fine,” Constance assured him.

“She doesn’t believe me,” d'Artagnan said plaintively.

Aramis glanced quickly at him and back at Constance. “Is that all right?”

“What?” she said distractedly.

“Your wrist.”

“Oh –“ She glanced down at it. There wasn’t a mark left, and it didn’t hurt at all. “Yes, thank you.”

He smiled faintly, letting go and turning to d'Artagnan. “You should be resting.”

“She doesn’t believe me,” d'Artagnan protested.

“She’s mourning, d'Artagnan –“

“ – is _not_ – “

“ – perhaps later she can think about this.” He looked back at Constance, silently apologising for talking about her rather than to her.

“I really tried,” d'Artagnan said softly. “I didn’t like him, but I didn’t want him to die. Constance, please. Believe me.”

“I –“

Aramis caught her eye. “Don’t say it if it isn’t true,” he murmured. “That won’t help.”

“I don’t know how I feel,” she said helplessly.

“And normally, no one would understand that better than d'Artagnan. He’s a little confused today. I promise, once he’s better, this will all pass.”

Constance studied him for a moment before looking back at d'Artagnan. “You didn’t want him dead,” she said quietly. “I believe that.”

d'Artagnan relaxed so completely he almost fell over; Aramis stifled a curse, hurrying to prop him up. “True,” d'Artagnan said happily.

Constance couldn’t help the smile. “He’s keeping you moving,” she noted.

“I’m looking forward to the day he’s able to train again. It will certainly be less tiring,” Aramis agreed, propping him carefully against the head of the bed. “Now, d'Artagnan, do you think you can rest now?”

“Am resting,” d'Artagnan mumbled.

Constance stood, carefully, moving back to the door and waiting until Aramis joined her. “What’s wrong with him?” she murmured.

“It’ll pass.”

“Not what I asked,” she said sharply.

“He’s just a little confused; he’s been asleep for four days.”

Constance studied him. “And you’d tell me if it was something else?”

“If I didn’t, I’m sure he would. He’s not exactly keeping quiet right now.”

Constance looked reflexively at d'Artagnan, who was watching them drowsily. “Stay?” he asked, holding out a hand to her.

“He doesn’t like being alone right now,” Aramis said softly, “but I can stay if you need to get back to the palace.”

“I have a little time.” Constance went back to sit on the bed, letting d'Artagnan hold her hand loosely. “I’ll have to go in a while,” she told him.

“You’re here now,” he murmured, drifting into sleep even as she watched.

“He’ll be fine,” Aramis promised quietly.

“I hope so,” Constance agreed. “I think we have things to talk about, when he’s ready.”

 

d'Artagnan was alone when he woke. Lying still, he checked carefully for the others, testing his shields as he went. Aramis, asleep somewhere close by. Porthos, down in the yard with Treville. Athos on his way out of the garrison. d'Artagnan tracked him idly for a couple of streets and then pulled back, sitting up in bed.

He was wobbling towards the window, hoping to catch Porthos’ attention, when Constance came in. “What are you doing?” she demanded, moving to help him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in surprise. He hadn’t sensed her, though he’d been focusing on the others.

“Trying to keep you from breaking your neck, apparently. What are you doing up?”

He dropped back onto the bed, sighing. “Looking for Porthos.”

“Why?”

“Because I…” He blushed but continued firmly “need some help, and he’s the closest.”

Constance shook her head. “I’m a – was a married woman, you know.”

“I didn’t know you were here.”

“And how did you know Porthos was the closest one?” she asked.

d'Artagnan thought very quickly. “I was alone, so Athos must have sent Aramis to get some rest, and he’ll have left the garrison for a while.”

“Mmm. Well, I can go and get Porthos, or I can help you.”

“Porthos, please.” He smiled at her look. “I am thinking of your reputation, Madame Queen’s Companion.”

“I know you tried to save him.”

“What?” d'Artagnan blinked, confused. She hadn’t meant to say that, but he couldn’t untangle her emotions enough to know what she’d meant.

“Bonacieux. I know that you tried to save him.”

She wasn’t really sure, but he appreciated the effort. “Thank you.”

She studied him, frowning. “You don’t remember.”

“Remember what?”

“You woke up yesterday when I was here, and you were very concerned about whether I believed you’d tried to help him.”

“Oh.” d'Artagnan shook his head. Everything since Bonacieux’s death was a hazy mess, he couldn’t unpick any of it. “I don’t remember.”

“Is that normal?”

Ah. Constance was going to be his interrogator. d'Artagnan reached for her hand, running a finger absently over her knuckles. “It’s happened twice before. Both times I was in Lupiac, under my father’s care, and he didn’t like to speak of it. So I don’t really know what’s normal. I feel fine, now. Just tired.”

“He didn’t tell you what to look for or how to avoid it or anything?”

“It distressed him,” d'Artagnan said quietly. “I didn’t like to press.”

“Your friends were worried about you.”

“I know.”

“I was worried about you.”

He pressed her hand to his lips. “I’m sorry.”

“Maybe if you told us what triggers this, we’d know what to expect.”

“The others do know.”

“Really? I got a lot of shuffling about and sidewards looks when I asked.”

d'Artagnan shook his head slowly. “They’re protecting me.”

“From me?”

“From everyone.”

Constance pulled her hands free, taking a couple of steps back. “And you won’t tell me.”

“Can’t,” he said quietly. “Not won’t, can’t.”

“Aramis said it was yours to tell.”

“It is mine. But it’s all tied up in things that _aren’t_ mine. I need to work out what I can tell you.”

“Well, I’m sure you don’t need me around while you decide what I’m _permitted_ to know,” she said sharply.

d'Artagnan winced against the anger and disappointment rolling off her, filling the room. “I always need you, Constance. Please...”

“I have to get back to the palace. Goodbye, d'Artagnan.” She didn’t slam the door, closing it carefully instead; somehow it made d'Artagnan feel worse.

Porthos appeared a couple of minutes later, frowning over his shoulder. “What’d you say to Constance?”

“Nothing.”

“Must’ve been something, I haven’t seen her that angry in a while.”

“No, I said nothing. That’s the problem. She asked questions that I can’t answer.”

Porthos was silent as he helped d'Artagnan clean up. Finished, he helped him to sit, still in silence.

“Say it,” d'Artagnan said tiredly.

“Say what?”

“Whatever you’re trying to decide whether to say.” d'Artagnan frowned, thinking through the sentence, and then waved it off.

Porthos nodded slowly. “None of us is going to try and tell you what you should do. You know Constance, you know your own mind. But there’s no rule among the Musketeers to keep you from telling. ‘Long as you don’t mention anyone else, ‘long as you remember Treville can’t risk the regiment if you get caught, you’re free to tell anyone you want any _thing_ you want. It’s your own neck you’re risking. That keeps most of us quiet.”

“I could tell her,” d'Artagnan murmured.

“You hadn’t thought of it?”

“No. Didn’t dare.”

“Well, you’ve got some time. I’ve never told anyone outside the Musketeers, but you could talk to the others, see what they think.”

“Maybe I should,” d'Artagnan agreed. “Did you talk to me?”

“Sorry?”

“While I was…” He gestured vaguely. “Did you talk to me?”

“We all did. Aramis thought it might help you find your way back.” Porthos eyed him. “Did it?”

“I knew I wasn’t alone,” d'Artagnan murmured.

Porthos squeezed his shoulder gently. “Should get some rest. Worry about the rest of it later.”

“Yes. Thank you.”


	10. A Marriage of Inconvenience, pt 3

Aramis brought d'Artagnan’s meal later that evening. Warned by Porthos, he was expecting questions, but he walked into a conversation between Athos and d'Artagnan instead. “Should I leave?”

“No, stay,” d'Artagnan said quickly. Athos didn’t speak.

Aramis settled carefully on the bed, pushing the plate into d'Artagnan’s hands. “What are we talking about?”

Athos ignored him again. “There must be a way, d'Artagnan.”

“If there is, I don’t know it. Not go unshielded ever.”

“That’s not a solution,” Aramis said automatically. He still wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but he knew what trying to shield all the time did to always-on Mentals.

d'Artagnan glanced sideways at him. “If there’s a way, I don’t know it,” he repeated quietly.

“A way to do what?”

“A way to not get dragged down.” He looked back at Athos. “It doesn’t always happen. It didn’t happen with Thérèse or Marsac.”

“Why didn’t it?” Aramis asked, too loud, trying to cover the grief that name always evoked. “What’s different about the times it happened?”

“It’s more personal. I’d never met Thérèse and I didn’t know Marsac.”

“You can’t have known the man you killed at sixteen, either.”

“But killing someone yourself is a deeply personal thing whether you know them or not. I know Athos as well as I know anyone in the world, and Bonacieux…”

He trailed off, looking away. Aramis shifted, but it was Athos who leaned forward to touch him. “d'Artagnan.”

“People say, ‘I’ll hate you with my last breath’,” d'Artagnan said, as though he’d never stopped talking. “Bonacieux actually did it. He was still trying to curse me long after he ran out of breath.”

“Some men are just –“ Aramis shrugged, because Bonacieux had been petty and cruel, in his own way, but he hadn’t been _evil_. “Small,” he said eventually.

“I know,” d'Artagnan agreed. “But that – I think that’s why.”

Athos stirred. “You’ve never spoken about this with anyone? Tried to work it out?”

“Only you three. And my father, briefly, the first time.”

“Briefly,” Athos repeated. “He wouldn’t help you with it?”

“He didn’t know I remembered it.” d'Artagnan deliberately turned to look at Aramis, cutting Athos out. “The first time this happened, the first time I woke, I told him everything I remembered. It hurt him so badly that the next time I woke, I pretended I’d forgotten, that I didn’t even remember waking. The second time was the same; I pretended not to remember. I couldn’t bear feeling that pain in him and knowing I was the cause.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Aramis said carefully, not quite sure where d'Artagnan was going.

“Not my fault, but because of me. It’s the same thing wrong with Athos now; the thought of me stuck there and them unable to help is so intolerable to them. Athos is trying to fix it by finding the way to get me back out faster. As if there’s a way I know to do it that I just haven’t bothered using before.” He was trembling, very slightly.

“Athos is fierce when he’s protecting the people he cares about.” Aramis was very, very careful not to look away from d'Artagnan, even though he couldn’t see Athos from here; he had no idea how he was reacting to this.

“If there’s a way, I don’t know it,” d'Artagnan said for the third time. “It just happens.”

“He worries about you,” Aramis told him. “That’s all.”

“I know what it is.” d'Artagnan turned back to Athos. “You need to stop. Please.”

“Is this something Flora could help you with?”

“Flora doesn’t know anything about the Dark Place. We’ve spoken about it. It’s never happened to her, or to any empath she knows.” He shook his head. “It’s happened three times in more than six years. I can live with that. Please, Athos. Stop letting it hurt you. Just let it go.”

Athos studied him for several minutes. “I will try,” he said finally.

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan murmured.

Aramis nudged him. “Eat something,” he said. “I’m coming to check on you tomorrow morning, and I expect to find you well enough to resume training.”

d'Artagnan glanced at him. “Really?” he asked warily.

“ _Limited_ training,” Aramis qualified, and d'Artagnan rolled his eyes. “But yes. So eat up.”

“Yes, sir,” d'Artagnan muttered, leaning over the plate.

Athos stood, letting himself out of the room. d'Artagnan didn’t look up, but he relaxed when the other man was gone.

“It’s because he loves you,” Aramis said gently.

d'Artagnan kept eating in silence.

 

d'Artagnan waited patiently in a corridor. He’d already waved to Marguerite, three pages and two guards, so he knew Constance knew he was here; she was either ignoring him or unable to get away, and either way he’d just wait. She wouldn’t leave him here forever.

He hadn’t decided what he was going to do. Not really; not properly. He was hoping he’d know when he saw her.

Professor Lemay came past, saw him, and hesitated. “Monsieur – d'Artagnan, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “Professor Lemay.” Lemay was kind, and gentle, and wanted to help people stop hurting; it wasn’t really his fault he was also a bit wet. “I hope no one needs you right now.”

“Ah, no,” Lemay assured him. “Her Majesty likes me to check on the Dauphin every few days, after that illness some time back, but he’s not ill at all. Very robust, in fact.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You’re not on duty, are you?”

“I was hoping to speak to Con – Madame Bonacieux, but her duties are keeping her. I’ll wait.”

Lemay studied him for a moment. “I hope you won’t think this out of place, but you look tired.”

“I’ve been unwell. Much better now, though. Thank you for your concern.” The man tried so hard; it was impossible to dislike him, even though he was faintly irritating.

"I'm glad to hear it. I know you have your own medic, but if I can ever be helpful, please do let me know."

"Thank you. And – well, I'm not sure how I could help you, but I'm at your service if you need me."

"Thank you."

Constance appeared and d'Artagnan blinked at the rush of feelings from Lemay. _Huh._

"What are you doing here?" she asked stiffly.

d'Artagnan bowed slightly. "Only hoping for a few moments of your time."

She scowled, turning to Lemay. "Her Majesty can't get away just now, Professor Lemay, but Marguerite is inside."

"Thank you." He bowed lightly, nodding to d'Artagnan as he slipped into the Dauphin's quarters.

Constance turned back to d'Artagnan. "He likes you," d'Artagnan said without meaning to.

"What? Professor Lemay? He's my friend. He's a nice man."

"A nice man who likes you."

"I've been a widow for a week, d'Artagnan, must you speak of such things? What do you want?"

She wasn't as angry as she looked; more hurt. d'Artagnan squashed the impulse to reach for her hands. "To speak with you, if you'll listen."

"Go on, then."

"Somewhere private?"

She rolled her eyes again, but she led him to a small room that looked like it might have been intended for receiving small groups of people. It hadn't been used in a while, though; just the act of opening the door stirred up dust to dance in the sun by the window.

"Now." Constance folded her arms, watching him. "What is it?"

"Understand, first..." He closed his eyes, trying to decide what to say. "I didn't tell you, because I _don't_ tell people. All my life, only a handful of people know and I didn't even tell all of them myself – it wasn't ever you, it was always me."

Constance had taken a couple of steps closer when he opened his eyes; she looked worried. "What is it? It can't be that bad."

"Depends who you ask," he muttered. "I'm an empath, Constance."

"What?"

"I have an Ability."

She stared at him in silence for what felt like a very long time. "What?" she said finally.

"Empath," he repeated carefully, watching her to make sure she understood. "I don't tell – Gascony's bad for people with Abilities, and Lupiac's worse. A handful of other people know, not many."

"Athos, and the others?"

"They know, yes," he said, careful not to answer the half-asked question about them. "The day you tried to chase me away – when I was commissioned – I knew you were lying. Do you remember?"

"I remember," she agreed dazedly.

"I knew you were lying, and I knew Bonacieux was nearby and enjoying the whole thing. There's others – I'd have to think, but there's other examples."

"You always know? Everything?"

"I can _not_ know, but by default, yes. Everything."

"How loud we must seem to you," she murmured. Eyes narrowing, she added, "And the illness you've just gotten over?"

"Complicated, but because of my Ability, yes." He let himself reach for her hands, pressing a kiss to her palms, one after the other. "I'm in your hands now, Constance. Denounce me if you feel you should; I won't argue. My fate is yours to decide."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said impatiently, and he kissed her hands again in relief. "I have questions, though."

"Anything you want. Anything I can," he amended quickly. "I keep a lot of secrets," he said at her look.

"I suppose you do, don't you," she agreed. Glancing around the dusty little room, she added, "This isn't the place. Walk in the gardens with me; there won't be anyone around."

 

d'Artagnan patiently answered Constance’s questions. Once or twice he apologised and told her he couldn’t answer, but for the most part he seemed to be open and honest. Constance couldn’t say she followed everything, exactly, but he didn’t seem to be holding anything back.

“Tell me about the illness,” she said finally.

d'Artagnan considered it for a moment. “Very occasionally,” he said finally, “if everything goes wrong when someone dies near me, I get – lost. Pulled out of my head so I can’t find the way back. I always get back in the end, but…”

“And you’re a soldier?” Constance said over him. “When you know that might happen? Why would you do that?”

“It might happen to me anywhere. People die, Constance. I can do good as a soldier.”

“You could do good as almost anything else, and not be in so much danger. You could be a magistrate. You’d never sentence an innocent man.”

“I am what I am,” he said quietly. “The good I can do is worth the risk.” He shrugged. “And it’s happened three times in more than six years, and I’m surrounded by people who understand, now, who know how to help.”

“Why did it happen with him?” She wasn’t looking at him, eyes locked on the path in front of them.

“Pardon?”

“Why with him?” she repeated. “You said, if everything goes wrong.”

d'Artagnan nodded slowly. “I wasn’t shielding; I was trying to find the closest person to help. That’s already bad, but it doesn’t usually matter unless I know the person. Someone I know personally is worse than someone I don’t. And I hadn’t been expecting to find him, or for him to die. Unexpected death.”

“Those are the reasons?”

“Unexpected death, someone I know, no shields. It doesn’t happen often.”

“No, I suppose not,” she admitted.

They walked on for a moment before she stopped dead. “You said Professor Lemay…”

“He likes you,” d'Artagnan confirmed with a grin. “It’s kind of sweet, actually. Like when you see the prettiest girl in town, and you never go near her because she terrifies you.”

“How sweet,” Constance said flatly.

d'Artagnan shrugged. “I won’t tell you next time.”

“Don’t,” she agreed. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to look at him, now.” She sighed, tucking her hand into d'Artagnan’s arm again. “So who knows about you?”

“Athos, Aramis and Porthos. Captain Treville.” He hesitated over Louis’ name, left it unsaid, and instead continued quickly, “Two of Porthos’ friends; one of them is an empath as well and has been helping me with shields.”

“You needed help?”

“Shielding here in the city is different than shielding at – in Gascony. I didn’t need to do so much, for a start. Not as many people around.”

Constance nodded slowly. “Only them? No one from Gascony?”

“My sisters, but I haven’t seen them in some years. My father knew, but…and it just wasn’t safe to tell anyone else. Lupiac’s – it’s a very bad place to have an Ability.”

Constance squeezed his arm gently. “Better here?”

“Much better here,” he agreed with a smile.

Constance grinned suddenly, leading him onto a path to a more populated part of the gardens. She made him tell her what the people they passed were feeling, and though he obliged – mostly – it got boring after a while. There was little variation in it, and he didn’t go beyond the surface things she could mostly have figured out from facial expressions and body language anyway.

“I don’t know most of these people very well,” he explained when she asked. “It’s easier the longer I spend with someone. Athos, the others, you – I can go very deep with you. My father didn’t even need to talk to me much. But people I don’t know, it’s all just surface.” He reached out to touch the pendant at her throat, eyes distant. “The queen gave you this,” he murmured. “It was a gift; something political, I don’t know. There’s no memories attached to it. No feelings.”

“The queen gave it to me,” she agreed. “I don’t know about the rest of it…d'Artagnan, let go,” she added, gently brushing his hand away.

“Sorry,” he murmured, tucking her hand into his arm again.

Constance frowned. “You – things as well? How do you ever get any sleep?”

“I get used to my own things. The others are careful to make sure I get the same bedroll if we’re out of the garrison, and no one goes into my room there. Gloves help.” He considered for a minute. “Porthos came to your house, once, looking for my rosary. You’d been carrying it around in a little pouch.”

“Yes,” she said warily.

“You were wearing the pouch when Bonacieux said – something bad; you were so homesick, so suddenly, you thought you’d die.”

“Yes,” she breathed, remembering it all over again. d'Artagnan stiffened momentarily beside her and she winced. “I’m sorry, am I hurting you?”

“No.” He smiled at her. “I brought it up, anyway. I’m sorry, I was just trying to – explain.”

“Why did he want your rosary?”

d'Artagnan shrugged. “It was my mother’s; it’s been in her family for years. I know it as well as I know anything. When I’m having trouble, it calms me to have it. I was having trouble that day, I asked Porthos to get it, and even though he didn’t know why – he didn’t know then, they didn’t find out for months – he got it for me anyway.”

“Of course he did,” Constance murmured. “Well, I’m glad I thought to keep it for you, then. I’m sorry if the pouch upset you.”

“Surprised me. It didn’t upset me.” He glanced away as the church bells started to ring the hour. “I should go, I’m on duty.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” Constance agreed. “d'Artagnan?”

“Yes?”

She smiled. “Thank you. For telling me all this. Trusting me like this.”

d'Artagnan smiled, touching her hand briefly before turning away. Constance watched until he vanished around a hedge; then she went to find the queen. Duty called.


	11. The Accused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you thought I was messing with canon before? Ha!
> 
> Also, this is the penultimate chapter. Next week it's all over again, guys!

Athos hadn’t been expecting it, but he wasn’t surprised to find Milady in his room. Since she’d been dismissed by the king, she didn’t really have anywhere else to go.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, shrugging off his jerkin. “Did the Church repossess all the Cardinal’s boltholes?”

She pulled a face at him. “This room is dreadful. How do you put up with it?”

“I don’t spend much time here. Did you want something?”

“I can’t come and visit with my dear husband?”

Athos turned to study her. “We are not dear anything, as you know.” Milady shrugged, looking away. “If you need help…”

“You had your chance,” she said sharply. “You didn’t want my help then.”

Athos frowned, thinking. “How is it the king set you aside?”

“He was bored of me,” she said carelessly.

“No. How was he _able_ to?” Milady looked at him sharply; he met her gaze levelly. “Let’s not pretend. Louis should not have been able to set you aside until _you_ were bored with _him_.”

“Someone’s been giving away my secrets, I see,” she mused.

“Perhaps he was just too strong willed for you.”

She laughed. “Did you really think that would work, Athos?” He shrugged, and she smiled. “Well, you deserve something for amusing me. I found myself unable to control him, because someone else was already doing so.”

Athos stared at her, very cold. “What?”

“My control is short lived. It must be reinforced often. And though I can make someone do something against their nature, I have to work up to it, and it doesn’t last. Whoever is working on the king is changing the very way he thinks. It makes my control ineffective.”

“ ‘Whoever’,” Athos repeated slowly.

Milady tipped a look at him. “I can’t do your whole job for you, now can I? And how is it that d’Artagnan hasn’t realised this already?”

“He has,” Athos murmured. “We just hadn’t realised the extent of it.”

“Good for you.” She stretched out on her side, watching him.

“Are you working for Rochefort now?”

“What would you do if I were?”

He shrugged. “Put you out of the garrison, to start with.”

“I’ll save you the trouble.” She stood, fiddling with her sleeves.

“Anne,” Athos said carefully. “If you need help…”

“Not from you. I have always made it on my own. I’ll do now.” She swept out.

Athos went to the railing to signal the gate guard to let her out; then he went looking for the others. They needed to know this.

 

“My loyal Musketeers will escort me.”

Aramis was so furious he could barely speak. That Rochefort would _dare_ , that he would touch royalty - not just royalty, but _Anne_ , his Ana, the woman who should be sacrosanct above all others. Rochefort must be insane to think he can get away with this.

Constance’s hurried warning didn’t help either, and Louis’ brusque dismissal of them was the final straw. Aramis was glad when the Red Guards provoked them on the way back to the Queen’s quarters. The brief outburst of violence went a long way towards calming him down and helping him relax a little.

But then he had to tell the others that Rochefort knew about him, about the convent and the queen, and that meant telling the whole story to Treville for the first time. He was expecting anger; it was almost cleansing, in a way, though he was sorry that Athos bore some of the brunt of it. It really hadn’t been his fault.

The others left him in his room, going to decide what to do next. He didn’t blame them, really. He’d already proven he couldn’t be trusted when the Dauphin was in danger, and it wouldn’t be any different now that it was about the queen. He sat quietly, praying, and waited to see what would happen next.

d’Artagnan knocked on his door after a while, pushing it open. “I have to go to the palace. Tell the others when they get back, will you?”

“What’s wrong?” Aramis asked, standing.

“I don’t know. Constance sent for me.” He waved a scrap of parchment at Aramis, stepping across to the nearest candle to burn it before Aramis could see it. “She’s worried about something, and it must be important for her to ask me to come, she knows we’re not supposed to be there right now.”

“Where are the others?”

“Chasing up leads,” he said vaguely. “Trying to figure out what we’re going to do next.”

“I’ll go with you.”

d’Artagnan shook his head. “No.”

“d’Artagnan…”

“Aramis.”

“I can control myself, you know.”

d’Artagnan didn’t speak, but the silence was answer enough.

“You will need someone to watch your back while you meet with Constance. Let me do it. Please?” A way to make up for what he had done, in some tiny measure.

d’Artagnan sighed. “Very well. Let’s go, then.” He found a scrap of parchment and a quill on Aramis’ desk, scrawled a quick note, and left it on Aramis’ bed for the others to find. “Hopefully we’ll be back before they are. Come on.”

 

Constance cracked the door, peering at him. “d'Artagnan?”

“You sent for me. What’s wrong?” His tone sharpened without his meaning to. Constance was terrified.

“Who’s with you?”

“Aramis. He was with me when I got your message. What’s wrong?” He hesitated, trying to sort through the tangle of regret and uncertainty coming from Constance. “He can wait out here, if you want.”

“No,” she said reluctantly. “This concerns him, too. I’ll have your oath of silence, though, both of you.”

“Of course,” Aramis agreed.

“Whatever you need,” d'Artagnan promised.

She stepped aside just enough for to let them in, locking the door behind them. Anne was standing over the Dauphin’s crib; she looked up sharply as they came in. “You called Aramis, Constance? For _this_?”

“I called d'Artagnan. Aramis came on his own.” She stepped around them, hurrying to Anne’s side. “You know that they’ll do everything they can.”

“Yes, of course.” She smiled apologetically at them. “My apologies, gentlemen. I would trust you with my own life in an instant, but…” She trailed off, looking down at the Dauphin, and a wave of fear washed over her.

“What _is_ it?” d'Artagnan asked urgently. “Constance…”

Constance held out a hand and he moved automatically to take it, watching her. She squeezed, gesturing to the crib; he followed the gesture. The Dauphin lay, naked apart from a nappy, kicking cheerfully, chewing on his fist.

He was yellow.

“Jaundice?” d'Artagnan said, bewildered. Aramis made a horrified noise, coming to join them.

“No,” Constance said quietly. “Look at his feet.”

Threads of green were visible on the Dauphin’s feet, thickening and deepening as he watched, strengthening until the babe’s whole body was coloured bright blue. “He’s been changing for a while now,” Constance told them. “Every colour I’ve ever seen and then some.”

Aramis stripped off a glove to touch the tiny arm. Purple started spreading from around his fingertips. “He doesn’t seem to be in pain,” he said after a moment. d'Artagnan winced; not something Aramis could fix, then.

“No, he’s not distressed at all,” Constance agreed.

Anne laughed bitterly. “Yes, that’s good. He’ll be imprisoned for Ability, but at least he won’t be in pain!”

“It won’t happen,” Aramis said firmly.

“The King is not above Church law!”

“Lemay,” d'Artagnan said abruptly.

“What about him?” Constance asked with a frown.

He caught both her hands, studying her. “I’m sorry. I’m going to ask you to do something unfair.”

“What is it?” she asked apprehensively.

“Find Lemay. Tell him you need his help urgently, no one else can do it, it has to be him. Make him swear to keep it secret; he’ll agree. Bring him here.”

“How do you know he’ll agree?” Anne protested.

“He’s in love with Constance,” d'Artagnan said without looking away from her. She was furious at him for the suggestion, horrified at the thought of manipulating Lemay, already resigned to it. “He’ll agree. And he’s a good man besides, and loyal to you.”

“How does he help us?” Aramis asked. He still had one hand on the Dauphin’s arm, apparently without realising.

“Have him declare that – I don’t know – the Dauphin’s lungs are weak. He must be sequestered, away from the palace, with only one or two servants.”

“Send him away? No,” Anne snapped.

d'Artagnan finally looked away from Constance. “You have to, your majesty. He can’t be allowed in public and you can’t sequester him here, it’s just not possible. If anyone finds out you’ll be accused of infidelity. Neither you nor the King has any Ability.”

“That doesn’t always mean anything. Not everyone with an Ability inherits it.”

“That won’t matter. Especially not after what’s happened. Rochefort will take him away just because it would hurt you, you know he would.” He was sort of surprised it hadn’t been done already, to be honest; it seemed the kind of thing Rochefort would do.

“d'Artagnan is right, your majesty,” Aramis said quietly. “You can sequester him in comfort with people who care for him, visit him, and bring him home when he’s ready. Or you can keep him here, and when he’s discovered he’ll be imprisoned and you may be set aside.”

Anne took a deep breath; d'Artagnan could feel her willing herself back to calm. “How long would he need to be away for?”

d'Artagnan flinched. “A couple of years. Two, three, maybe four. Until he can control this. He _can_ learn control, I promise.”

“There is no other option?”

“What about blocking him?” Constance asked hopefully.

d'Artagnan shook his head. “It won’t work on this kind of Ability, and even if it did, it would make it very hard for him to learn to control it later. He’d be crippled.”

Anne nodded slowly, drawing her composure around herself like a mask. “Constance, please go and find Professor Lemay. Tell him I request his aid; tell him it must be in confidence.”

“Do you want me to come?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Better not, if I’m supposed to manipulate his feelings.” She sounded calm, but she was angry at him.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” he said again. “It’s for the Dauphin.”

“I know,” she agreed, bowing to the Queen and letting herself out.

“She’s angry with you,” Anne noted. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ll get past it, your majesty, we always do.” Smiling awkwardly, he crossed to the window, firmly keeping his back turned to Aramis and Anne. They talked quietly in Spanish; he let himself listen to the sounds without trying to attach any meaning to them.

Perhaps ten minutes passed before there was a knock on the door. d'Artagnan went to open it, letting Constance pass him and halting Lemay just inside the door.

Anne gripped Constance’s hand tightly. Aramis had withdrawn a couple of steps, watching carefully.

“Professor Lemay,” Anne said calmly, “I must place myself and my son in your hands.”

He swallowed. “I hope you know I will always do my best for you and the Dauphin, your majesty.”

“This will require you to lie,” Anne said steadily.

“White lies are permitted for the good of the patient. What will I be lying about?”

Anne glanced at d'Artagnan, who nodded. Lemay hadn’t wavered and his loyalty was strong; as far as d'Artagnan could tell, he was safe.

She gestured the doctor towards the crib; d'Artagnan shadowed him, two steps behind, ready just in case. He could tell the moment Lemay saw the child; his steps faltered and blind panic swept over him for a moment before he forced it down.

“I see,” he murmured, reaching to touch the child as Aramis had. “Some kind of camouflage reflex…? I don’t know how I can help, your majesty. To my knowledge I’ve never met anyone with an Ability. I’ve no idea how to deal with this.”

Anne had relaxed when he didn’t run screaming; now she smiled shakily. “My hope was that you would put your name to a report stating that the Dauphin’s lungs are weak, that he must be sequestered for his health. Perhaps in Nice, or Antibes. Somewhere he can be placed with only one or two servants, until he can learn to control this.”

“Nice may be too large. May I suggest somewhere like Néris-des-Bains?”

“That’s in central France,” Aramis protested. “Nowhere near any coast.”

“It’s not near a coast, but it has natural hot springs.” He smiled faintly, wistfulness tinging his words. “Madame Bonacieux knows the benefits of steam for weak lungs.”

“There’s nothing wrong with his lungs,” Aramis pointed out.

“If this is to work it must be realistic in all aspects, so I must act exactly as I would if this were true. For a child with weak lungs, my advice is hot springs. Néris-des-Bains is a quiet town and there are several bath houses. It wouldn’t be difficult to commandeer one to take his Highness to each day to maintain the fiction.”

“Then you’ll make this report in front of the court?” Anne asked.

Lemay hesitated for a moment – d'Artagnan could taste the fear – but he nodded. “I will, your majesty.”

Anne didn’t react outwardly, but the relief washed over d'Artagnan. “Name your reward, professor, and you will have it.”

“I desire only to see my Queen and Dauphin safe.”

He meant it. d'Artagnan was almost sorry Constance had chosen him and not Lemay; he was a good man and he deserved a woman like Constance.

“This must be done quickly, your majesty,” Aramis said quietly. “If certain people find out…”

“Yes.” Anne drew a deep breath. “Go to the garrison, ask for a volunteer to accompany them; this may be a long term assignment, be sure that is understood. Professor Lemay, we will speak to the King. Constance, please pack for the Dauphin and for yourself – you and Professor Lemay will accompany him for now.”

“Your majesty,” Constance protested.

“It must be people I trust, and I trust you above all others. d'Artagnan will go to speak to the wet nurses with you; I will trust your judgement in that matter.”

“After I’ve escorted you to the king and back,” d'Artagnan said automatically.

Anne gripped Constance’s hands tightly. “I won’t leave you there for long, Constance, but I must know he is safe. Marguerite will go with you, and as soon as they’re settled, you may return here.”

“Of course,” Constance agreed quickly. “I’ll take care of it.”

d'Artagnan caught Aramis’ eye, drawing Lemay aside a little; Aramis came to join them. “You are making enemies in court by agreeing to this, Professor,” d'Artagnan said carefully, watching him. “There are parties plotting against the Queen and simply by helping her, you are choosing a side. We won’t blame you if you choose to stand aside.” Risky, but they had to know he would stand up if necessary.

Lemay swallowed several times. “I have never believed Abilities are inherently evil,” he said finally. “I think that, as in all things, it depends on the character of the man. Certainly the Dauphin has done no wrong. I won’t stand by and let him be harmed; it betrays my oath as a physician.”

Aramis smiled gratefully. “Your character is of the very highest, sir. I will go and arrange your escort.” He bowed quickly to Anne and Constance, letting himself out.

Anne drew herself up sharply. “Come. We will speak to the King.” Lemay nodded, following her, and d'Artagnan, with one last glance at Constance, followed them both.

 

Constance had almost finished packing when the Queen returned, d'Artagnan and Lemay in tow. Anne went straight to the crib, whispering over her son. d'Artagnan drew Constance to one side.

"The King wouldn't see her," he murmured. "Even about the Dauphin. He wouldn't open his door. And the whole court's outside, she couldn't force her way in."

"Are we going ahead?"

"We have to. The Dauphin has to be safe. It's too important to leave to chance." He touched her cheek lightly. "I'm sorry I asked you to do that. I know you didn't like it."

Constance shook her head. She was mostly over it; she knew he'd been thinking of the Dauphin, and she knew she'd do anything for the Queen and her child. "Maybe I'll sleep with him while we're away, as an apology."

"That'll hardly help him get over you." d'Artagnan was watching her, and the expression on his face made her think of standing outside Marmion's observatory and the joy he hadn't quite been able to hide behind jokes.

"Well, I slept with you while I was married. Now I'm with you, I need to find someone else."

d'Artagnan's gaze flicked briefly over her shoulder and back to her face. "He's a good man," he said, and suddenly they weren't joking.

"He is," she agreed. "And a good friend, and I'll be glad to have him with me. But he's not you."

"So few men are," he said solemnly. "They should really try harder."

Constance laughed, moving to step away. d'Artagnan caught her hands, holding her in place. "Marry me. When this is all over, when he's safe and you're home – marry me?"

"You're proposing _now_?" Catching herself, she added "Without even a ring?"

"Rings are overdone. Anyone can propose with a ring. Proposing without one takes style."

"Or not much forethought."

"Not much time."

He was still watching her, but he didn't seem worried, and she sighed as she realised why. "That's completely unfair, you know."

"So Aramis is always telling me," he agreed, grinning more broadly. "Say it, Constance?"

"Why?"

"I like to hear it."

She smiled. "Yes. I will marry you, d'Artagnan."

He smiled, kissing her hands but nothing else. He was being careful of Lemay, at least. “I love you.”

“I know,” she agreed airily, turning away, and this time he let her go.

 

They were just finishing up when someone tapped at the door. Constance went to answer it; d’Artagnan caught her arm, holding her back. He knew Marguerite, a little, and the swirl of misery and guilt was completely unlike her.

He gestured the others to silence, watching Constance until she nodded, and then opened the door just enough for Marguerite to see him without seeing any further into the room.

She blinked in surprise. “You - you’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m here at her majesty’s request,” he said evenly, watching her. “Are you going to report me?”

Guilt flared and he frowned. “Lady Marguerite…”

She turned as though to walk away. d’Artagnan quickly slipped out after her, drawing her into a side room before she realised what he was doing. “Don’t touch me,” she protested, but it was dull and hopeless.

“Lady Marguerite,” he said carefully, keeping between her and the door. “Have you been reporting to Rochefort?”

He didn’t need to see her face crumple to know he was right. Guilt and relief were warring in her. He steered her quickly to a seat, watching for a moment before risking leaving her there to get Constance.

“What’s happened?” Constance demanded, hurrying to put her arms around the other woman. Marguerite made an effort to pull away, but Constance ignored it.

“She’s been reporting to Rochefort,” d’Artagnan said quietly.

Marguerite sobbed. “I didn’t want to, I didn’t! He knew about Aramis, he said he’d see me ruined, it would have killed my father! And he only wanted such small things, at first, it didn’t seem - and then I couldn’t stop…”

“Oh, Marguerite,” Constance sighed, rubbing her arm gently. “It’s all right. Rochefort has fooled many people.”

d’Artagnan had been thinking carefully. Now he crouched in front of the two women, offering Marguerite a handkerchief. “We can help you,” he said gently. “We didn’t know about this, but it will work anyway. We’re going to take you out of the palace for a little while. It will be completely legitimate. We’re working to bring Rochefort down. Your secrets will be safe.”

Marguerite blinked, watching him. “Out of the palace?”

“We’re sending the Dauphin away,” Constance told her.

“Because of Rochefort?”

“He hasn’t helped, but no. Not because of him.” d’Artagnan glanced at Constance for confirmation before continuing, “The Dauphin has an Ability. It’s manifesting physically, and he’s too young yet to learn control. Professor Lemay has created a report to say that his lungs are ill and he’s being moved to Néris-des-Bains for some time. You’re his governess; no one would question your going with him. It will get you out of Rochefort’s power.”

“Ability,” she breathed. “But their majesties don’t -” She flinched, looking down. “It’s true, then?” she asked, small and broken. “About Aramis and the queen?”

“Abilities can present even when neither parent has one,” d’Artagnan said, very carefully. “You must know that.”

“Yes,” she said dully, “but that’s not what happened here.”

d’Artagnan looked helplessly at Constance, who shook her head. “Will you come?” she asked gently. “We don’t need to tell the others any of this. There’s no reason they need to know.”

“I need to apologise.” She looked at d’Artagnan. “Is he here?”

“I can fetch him for you.” She nodded, and d’Artagnan stood. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Aramis looked up sharply when he came back in. d’Artagnan shook his head quickly, addressing Anne. “Marguerite will go, your majesty. She wishes to speak to Aramis briefly.”

Anne nodded, turning back to Lemay, and Aramis went to join d’Artagnan. “What is it?” he murmured.

“Let her tell you,” d’Artagnan advised, waving him into the room. He didn’t go in - this conversation wasn’t for him - and a moment later Constance came out, leading him back to the queen’s chambers.

 

A Musketeer called Dantes came from the garrison. d’Artagnan didn’t know him very well, but he knew he was a skilled swordsman, and that he was loyal to the regiment above anything else. He and Aramis took him aside and explained what was happening.

Dantes nodded, unruffled. “I’ll guard him with my life. Who’s coming?”

“Professor Lemay and Lady Marguerite. One of the wet nurses; she’s blind, so they haven’t had to tell her what’s really happening. Constance is going along until you’re settled, and then she’ll be returning to the palace.”

“Do you want another Musketeer with you?” Aramis asked. “The Dauphin should really have more than one.”

Dantes considered for a moment. “Barrois. We’ve worked together before, and he’s fairly unflappable.”

d’Artagnan nodded. “I’ll go and fetch him. Do you have everything you need? We need to get moving, Lady Marguerite says that Rochefort may move on the Dauphin at any time.”

“I have everything, yeah. Why don’t we start? Barrois can catch up to us, he’ll move faster than we will anyway.”

“Good idea,” d’Artagnan agreed. “I’ll go and send him after you.”

He was halfway back to the garrison when he met Treville and the others coming in the other direction. He reined in to talk to them. “What’s going on?”

“We’re taking the queen out of the palace. It’s not safe for her there. Where have you been?”

“Long story. Where are you going?”

Athos glanced at the others. “We’re going to the convent. They sheltered her once before.”

d’Artagnan nodded. “I have to finish what I’m doing. I’ll catch up to you.”

“You need help?” Porthos asked. “Where’s Aramis?”

“He’s at the palace. And no, thank you, I don’t need help. I won’t be long.”

Barrois didn’t take much convincing. d’Artagnan sent him out of the city towards Neris-des-Bains and started away himself. The others hadn’t gotten far and he caught up to them barely outside of the city gates.

“So,” he said, falling into step beside Athos. “The queen and the Dauphin are away from the palace. What happens now?”

“We can discuss that once we’re safe,” Athos told him.

He had some kind of plan. d’Artagnan nodded, falling back to let him ride alone.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise this is kind of choppy. The original plan was to move straight into Season Three at this point, but the Beeb screwed us all on that one, and when I realised I wouldn't have time I decided to just leave it, and wait for the Beeb to [CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED] and some fish finger custard. I do apologise if it upsets anyone, but I promise, as soon as possible once we actually get new episodes, I'll keep going.

Aramis very much wanted to sit down for a few minutes, to absorb everything that was happening, but there was no time. As soon as he’d reached the house the others were arming him in preparation for breaking back into the Louvre.

“We could have just stayed there and waited for you,” he said, automatically checking the pistol someone gave him.

“We didn’t expect to have Vargas back here so soon,” d’Artagnan said, squinting at him.

“I’m fine,” Aramis said firmly, recognising the look.

“If you say so.”

Aramis pulled a face at him and turned to Vargas. “You’re not planning on betraying us, I hope,” he said in Spanish.

“Why should I? Rochefort is insane. He should have returned to Spain months ago, but he refused my orders.”

“And you just left him running amuck here? I suppose French chaos is good for Spanish interests.” Aramis checked the pistol again, hesitating as he realised what Vargas had said. “Months ago?”

“When Navas was killed.”

Porthos caught Aramis’ eyes. “Problem?”

“Who’s Navas?”

“He was Perales’ second,” d’Artagnan offered from across the room. “One of Emilie’s mobs killed him. Why?”

Aramis shook his head, turning back to Vargas. “What does Navas have to do with anything?”

“Navas created a shield around Rochefort’s mind, to keep it from being read. We couldn’t risk him being found out. When Navas died the shield began to fall. I sent for Rochefort to return until we could find someone else to hide him, but he refused. I’m not surprised he was found out.”

Aramis carefully didn’t look at d’Artagnan. “Rochefort has an Ability?”

Vargas studied him. “You didn’t know this.”

“We know it,” Aramis corrected him. “But we have no proof. Tell the king that this has just recently come to light. That will keep you clear.”

“What do you care for me?”

“Nothing. But Rochefort has caused enough deaths. Let’s not add another to his count if we can help it.” He smiled brightly. “Besides, we know who you are now. What will Philip say if you return home to Spain and tell him that you introduced yourself to the French king?”

Vargas scowled, settling back into his seat. Aramis turned away, gathering the others to the far corner with a look and quietly repeating what he’d just been told.

“This Navas was protecting Rochefort?” Treville asked quietly.

Aramis shrugged, but d’Artagnan was nodding. “I never could read him. I told Athos that the first night we found him - I’d stopped trying, recently. Otherwise I might have realised what was happening earlier.”

“Lot of us should have realised a lot of things sooner,” Porthos told him. “Navas was protecting him, but then it broke down when he died, yeah?”

“It might have…” d’Artagnan shook his head, thinking. “Something like that shouldn’t be allowed to _break down_ ; it needs to be removed properly. It might have made him crazy. He’s gotten worse recently, hasn’t he? As the break down got worse? That’s what happened to the woman pretending to be Louise, and she can’t possibly have always been as crazy as she ended up. Maybe he wasn’t always as he is now.”

“I hope that’s not sympathy,” Aramis protested. “The man tried to _rape the queen_ , d’Artagnan.”

“Hardly the action of a sane man, is it?” d’Artagnan shook his head at Aramis’ look. “It’s not sympathy. Only a thought. I’m probably wrong.”

“If,” Treville said thoughtfully, “ _if_ having this shield removed is what’s made him insane, and he’s now controlling the king - what happens to the king if Rochefort dies? Will he go insane?”

d’Artagnan shook his head. “A different thing altogether. The king will be fine. It may take some time for him to return to normal, but it will happen.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am.”

“If he really is insane, an’ he’s controlling the king, we should get moving,” Porthos said firmly. “Who knows what he’s doing. Everyone ready?”

Aramis nodded, checking his pistol one last time. “Yes, I’m ready.”

 

 

It took three days, in the end, before Louis was able to rise from his bed. As soon as Rochefort was dealt with, before the servants were allowed back in, Aramis went to the king. He was only semi conscious by then and didn’t realise what was happening as Aramis cleared out the remains of the poison and repaired the damage. Rochefort’s control would have to fade on its’ own, but d’Artagnan was sure that it would, so all they could do was wait.

The first problem was explaining the Dauphin’s absence. The queen had insisted that he not be told the truth, so that if it came to light later he could honestly claim innocence. It meant leaving him worried about his son’s health, but Professor Lemay’s report emphasised the success this treatment usually had and his confidence that it would work this time.

A week after Rochefort’s death, Louis summoned them to the palace.

“Rochefort wrapped my mind in such terrible lies,” he announced. “It’s as if I’ve woken from a terrible nightmare.”

Athos did not roll his eyes. How like Louis to refuse any responsibility. “He deceived many wise men, your majesty,” he said instead.

“And you have been grievously wronged, Aramis,” Louis continued. “I’m sorry for it.”

“There is no need to apologise,” Aramis assured him. “I am your humble servant.”

d’Artagnan twitched, but he didn’t speak.

“We must speak urgently, Treville,” Louis said, turning away without dismissing them. 

“Seems like everything’s back to normal, then,” Athos murmured. Porthos snorted, turning away to start back to the garrison.

d’Artagnan was watching Aramis as they walked, and he was the first to notice when Aramis simply stopped in the middle of the path. “Aramis…”

“I have to tell you all something.” Aramis was not quite meeting their eyes.

“This is never a good sign,” Porthos muttered.

Aramis scowled at him. “I’m resigning my commission, and retiring to the monastery at Douai.”

“Is this a joke?” Porthos asked.

“I made a vow to God in that cell, and I have to honour it.” He looked at d’Artagnan. “You know I’m serious about this.”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan murmured. “Do you think you’ll be happy there?”

“Happy is not really the point, my friend.”

“This is really what you want?” Athos asked.

“It is.”

“Then go with our blessings.” Athos pulled him into a brief hug.

“Athos!” Porthos protested.

“What would you have me do, tie him to a chair in the garrison?”

“Yes!”

“No, he wouldn’t,” d’Artagnan assured Aramis.

“Porthos,” Aramis said quietly. “I have to keep my vow.”

“You and your bloody vows!” Porthos dragged him into a hug. “I’m gonna come check on you,” he said, “so none of that beating yourself stuff.”

“It’s not that kind of order,” Aramis promised him.

“Good.” Porthos cupped his face for a moment before turning away, taking several steps to the side.

“Be well,” d’Artagnan told him, moving to hug him. “Be happy if you can,” he added more quietly. “You deserve it.”

Aramis forced a smile for the others’ sake. “Take care of Constance.”

“Always.” He took a step back, joining Porthos.

“Be safe,” Athos said.

“I will.” Aramis nodded, stepping past them and continuing down the path.

Athos stayed where he was until Aramis had vanished. Porthos shifted beside him, but he didn’t make any move to follow. “We doing the right thing?”

“We couldn’t have kept him. Aramis was always passing through the Musketeers. You and I will retire as old soldiers. That was never going to be Aramis.”

“You two? What about me?” d’Artagnan protested, tone deliberately light.

“You?” Porthos eyed him up and down. “I dunno. Either in Constance’s bed or on a battlefield somewhere.”

“Well, do I get to pick which one? Because I know which of those I’d rather.”

Porthos draped an arm around his shoulders. “We all want to die on a battlefield somewhere, d’Artagnan, but we just have to take what we can get.”

d’Artagnan heaved a sigh. “I suppose so.”

“Gentlemen,” Athos said. “Let’s get back to the garrison. Treville may need to see us when he’s finished with the king.”

d’Artagnan nodded, following him. “Do I get to pick which battlefield, at least? I mean, I’d rather it be something significant, rather than some piddling little bandit battle in the middle of nowhere.”

“We’ll see what we can do about that,” Porthos agreed. “If you pick your battlefield, I can always help you out.”

“I can always count on you, can’t I.”

“Always,” Porthos said, and suddenly he wasn’t joking any more.

“Always,” d’Artagnan echoed softly.

Athos watched the path in front of himself, leading his friends back to the garrison. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week is a special ficlet for Fayemouse, who left me a beautiful comment. Keep an eye out for it.


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